"Where am I?" Beom demanded, his voice trembling slightly, not with fear but with the weight of his frustration and fury.
Yaroslav paused on the staircase, his lips curling into that maddening smirk Beom had grown to hate. "Is it needed?" he replied smoothly, his tone condescending, as if Beom's question was beneath him. "You should just thank God I didn't kill you. You'd have been buried six feet under by now. But then I thought of your poor mommy..." His smirk widened as he descended further, his piercing gaze locking onto Beom. "She must think her precious son is alive and well. And yet, here you are, stuck with me. Forever."
Beom's blood boiled. His fists clenched at his sides, the sharp edges of his nails digging into his palms. "What do you want from me?" he spat, his voice rising with his anger. "First, you harass me, you assault me—violate me. Then you mutilate me, change my body into... this!" His voice cracked, but he pressed on. "And now, you kidnap me, lock me away in this gilded cage, using your wealth and luxury to hide the fact that I'm a prisoner! Is breaking me all you live for? What kind of sick bastard are you?!"
Yaroslav reached the bottom of the staircase and approached him with an unnerving calmness. He crouched slightly, bending to Beom's eye level, his face mere inches away. The grin on his face was chilling, devoid of warmth or humanity.
"I told you," Yaroslav said, his voice low and dripping with malice, "I'll get you pregnant. For now, I can't fuck you—I might break you if I try too soon. But as soon as you're healed..." He chuckled darkly, his voice sending shivers down Beom's spine. "I won't stop pounding you until you're carrying my child. A mini-me, Beom. I can already picture it."
Beom's glare was molten fury, his jaw tight as he tried to suppress the scream rising in his throat. "You bastard," he hissed through gritted teeth. His entire body trembled with rage, his mind racing with insults, retorts, and the overwhelming urge to claw the smug look off Yaroslav's face.
"You should get used to your new home," Yaroslav added nonchalantly as he straightened and began walking toward the kitchen. "You're not leaving, Beom. Not today. Not ever."
Beom stood there, his chest heaving, his thoughts screaming louder than the silence around him. This man is insane. He's a monster. A vile, twisted bastard who thinks he owns me. He thinks he can do whatever he wants. Well, fuck him. Fuck his mansion, his money, his threats. I'll get out of here. I'll find a way, even if it kills me.
"You think you've won, don't you?" Beom shouted, his voice laced with defiance. Yaroslav stopped but didn't turn, as if daring Beom to continue. "You're nothing but a coward hiding behind your power. If you think I'm going to roll over and play the little submissive for you, you're delusional."
Yaroslav glanced over his shoulder, that maddening smirk still etched on his face. "We'll see, Beom-ki. We'll see." And with that, he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Beom alone with his seething fury and the crushing weight of his captivity.
Beom turned back to the door, gripping it tightly as his thoughts spiraled. I can't stay here. I can't let him win. I don't care how many locks he has, how many guards, or how far away we are from civilization—I will escape. I'll fight him with everything I have. He'll regret ever thinking he could break me.
Yaroslav's voice drifted out of the kitchen, smooth and commanding as he spoke in Russian over the phone. Beom couldn't understand much, but the tone was clear—business, or something more sinister.
"Is it today? Alright, I'll come," Yaroslav said, his voice low and purposeful. Moments later, he emerged from the kitchen, holding a glass of deep red wine that glistened in the soft light. His sharp eyes flicked to Beom, lingering for a moment as a familiar, infuriating grin spread across his face. It wasn't a casual smile—it was the smirk of a man who believed he was untouchable, the expression of someone who knew he had all the power. Without a word, Yaroslav turned and strolled off, his footsteps echoing faintly in the luxurious hallway.
"Bastard," Beom muttered under his breath, his voice thick with disdain. He glared at Yaroslav's retreating figure until he disappeared from view. The anger simmering in Beom's chest was almost too much to bear, threatening to spill over into something reckless and loud.
God, how much I hate him, Beom thought, his fists clenching at his sides. That smug face, that arrogant smirk—he walks around like he owns the whole damn world. And right now, he thinks he owns me too. Bastard doesn't even hide it. He's so proud of himself, so confident that I can't fight back. But he's wrong. He's so wrong.
Beom began pacing the grand hall, the weight of the locked doors and barred freedom pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. His thoughts raced, spiraling between rage and hopelessness. Why is he like this? Does he enjoy seeing me suffer? Does it give him some sick thrill to control every aspect of my life? He took everything—my body, my freedom, my dignity—and he still walks around grinning like he's done me a favor.
His eyes darted toward the window, catching the snowy expanse beyond the glass. And where the hell am I anyway? Somewhere far enough that no one can hear me scream. That much is clear. Even if I got out of this mansion, where would I go? How far could I run before he dragged me back? Or worse, before one of his henchmen caught me and threw me at his feet like a damn trophy?
Beom stopped pacing and pressed his hands against the cool surface of the window. He stared out into the vast whiteness, his reflection faint in the glass. He said he'll come back. For what? Another twisted game? Another attempt to push me deeper into this nightmare? His fists slammed against the glass as his breathing grew ragged. Damn it, damn it, damn it! I can't live like this! I won't. I'll find a way out. I don't care how long it takes or what I have to do. There's no way in hell I'll let him win.
He turned away from the window and looked down at his trembling hands. I just have to be patient. I have to watch him, figure out how he thinks, what he wants. If I play my cards right, I can turn this around. I'll make him regret every second of this. Every. Single. One.
The sound of distant footsteps echoed through the hall, pulling Beom out of his thoughts. He glanced toward the direction Yaroslav had gone, his jaw tightening. Keep smiling while you can, bastard. Your day is coming. I'll make damn sure of it.
Beom let out a long, tired sigh as he sank into the plush couch in the hall, his eyes glued to the flat screen TV mounted on the wall. The screen was blank, save for the faint glow of the standby light, but Beom barely noticed. His mind felt heavy, like a whirlwind of unanswered questions and emotions was trapped inside his head. He leaned back, his gaze unfocused as he let the silence envelop him. How did I get here? he wondered for the millionth time. The enormity of the mansion, with its polished surfaces and cold luxury, only amplified his sense of isolation.
Suddenly, a distant noise broke his reverie. A rhythmic thumping sound, growing louder with every second. Beom furrowed his brows, sitting up straighter. A helicopter? Seriously? What kind of Bond villain nonsense is this now?
He got up and walked toward the door, curiosity outweighing his frustration. Before he could reach it, the sound of footsteps on the grand staircase made him pause. Turning around, he saw Yaroslav descending the stairs, each step deliberate and confident. He was impeccably dressed, as always, his heavy coat draped over his broad shoulders like he was about to grace the cover of a winter fashion magazine. The sight made Beom's stomach churn with irritation.
"I'm going out," Yaroslav said nonchalantly, his deep voice filling the space. He adjusted his gloves, barely sparing Beom a glance. "If you need food, it's in the fridge. Just microwave it and eat."
And just like that, he was gone, leaving through the door without waiting for a response. The sound of the helicopter grew deafening for a moment before it lifted off, taking Yaroslav away to God knows where. Beom stood rooted to the spot, his fists clenched.
"Microwave it and eat?" he muttered under his breath, mocking Yaroslav's words. "Oh, how considerate. Thanks so much for not starving me in your oversized prison." He rolled his eyes and shook his head, glaring at the door as if his disdain could somehow reach Yaroslav mid-flight.
The silence returned, more oppressive than before. Beom glanced around the vast hall, taking in the gleaming floors, ornate furnishings, and cold, impersonal decor. The mansion was beautiful, sure, but it felt more like a museum than a home—a sterile showcase of wealth with no soul.
Deciding he couldn't sit around and wallow in his thoughts, Beom headed back to the couch and turned on the TV. He flipped through the channels, but nothing captured his interest. Of course, even the TV in this place is as lifeless as its owner. After a few minutes of mindless channel surfing, he switched it off with a huff.
Restlessness gnawed at him, and he got up to explore. If he was going to be stuck here, he might as well figure out what secrets the house held. Climbing the staircase, he wandered down the hallway until he came to a door. When he opened it, he found himself in a study.
The room was cozy, with dark wood shelves lining the walls and a polished desk sitting in the center. A leather chair was tucked neatly behind it, and the faint scent of old paper lingered in the air. Beom ran his fingers over the desk's surface, marveling at how smooth it felt. Yaroslav has good taste, I'll give him that. But this is way too neat. Who keeps a study this clean? What's he hiding?
He started rifling through the desk drawers, hoping to find something useful—or at least interesting. But drawer after drawer came up empty. "Seriously? Not even a pen or a random receipt? Who even lives like this?" he muttered, frustrated. Giving up on the study, he left the room and moved on to the next door.
This time, his eyes widened in surprise as he stepped into a library. The sheer number of books was staggering, the shelves towering to the ceiling. A rolling ladder rested against one of the walls, and Beom couldn't help but grin.
"Wow," he murmured, walking further in. He let his fingers brush against the spines of the books, some of which were old enough to have faded titles. So, Mr. Psycho likes to read. Who would've thought? The room felt oddly inviting, almost like a sanctuary—if he ignored the fact that he was technically a prisoner.