Curiosity tugged at him. He hesitated, then carefully looked further, studying every detail with a strange mix of horror and intrigue. His mind spun, trying to understand the mechanics of it all, trying to figure out what exactly had been done to him. How was it even possible?
"Is this... is this really me?" he wondered aloud. His fingers trailed down cautiously, tracing the unfamiliar shape, feeling the softness that hadn't been there before. His skin tingled under his own touch, and he pulled his hand back quickly, feeling a wave of embarrassment despite being alone.
The longer he stood there, the more questions bubbled up. Why would Yaroslav go to such lengths? What kind of twisted mind would think of doing something like this? He clenched his fists, the familiar feeling of anger welling up, pushing aside the shock and disbelief.
"Is this what he wants? To turn me into someone I'm not? To make me something he can... control?" His stomach twisted with a mixture of disgust and rage. He could practically hear Yaroslav's mocking voice in his head, reminding him that he now had a "new purpose."
He looked back into the mirror, his jaw set, his eyes blazing. "You won't break me. I don't care what you've done. I am still Beom-ki," he whispered fiercely. His hands gripped the edges of the sink, and he forced himself to stand tall, to remember that despite whatever changes he'd been forced into, he was still himself. And no one—not even Yaroslav—could take that from him.
Beom finished showering, his body still feeling a little tender from the lingering effects of his surgery. After drying off and slipping into a comfortable pair of clothes, he popped the pills he had been prescribed, grimacing slightly at the bitter aftertaste. With his appetite piqued, he decided to head downstairs in search of something to eat. The ache in his stomach wasn't just hunger—it was also the weight of the situation he was stuck in. But food was a small comfort he wouldn't deny himself.
The kitchen was eerily quiet as Beom entered. The polished marble countertops gleamed under the soft lighting, and the faint hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the spacious room. It felt too pristine, too sterile—like everything else in the house. It didn't feel lived-in, and certainly not warm. He shook his head, pushing those thoughts aside as he opened the large stainless-steel fridge.
His eyes widened slightly at the sight. The fridge was packed—no, overstuffed—with food. Various Tupperware containers were neatly stacked, their contents visible through the clear plastic. Meals of all kinds sat ready to eat: pastas, grilled meats, roasted vegetables, and soups. Fresh fruits were arranged in bowls—bright oranges, glossy red apples, and perfectly ripened berries. Drinks filled one section: bottles of water, sodas, and an assortment of juices. There were even several yogurts and fancy imported cheeses lining the shelves.
"Well, at least he doesn't starve his prisoners," Beom muttered under his breath, his lips twisting into a half-smile.
He reached out and grabbed one of the Tupperware containers, lifting the lid slightly to peek inside. The aroma of roasted chicken and creamy mashed potatoes hit his nose, making his stomach growl loudly in response. "Okay, this'll do," he said, placing the container on the counter.
But he didn't stop there. His curiosity got the better of him, and he opened a few more containers just to see what was in them. One held a rich-looking lasagna, another some kind of seafood stew, and yet another was packed with an elaborate salad topped with nuts and dried cranberries.
"Who knew the guy could cook like this?" Beom muttered as he glanced at the carefully prepared meals. "Guess when you're a rich psychopath, you have time to learn culinary skills."
He grabbed a few pieces of fruit and a yogurt to go with the roasted chicken, then closed the fridge, careful not to disturb the precariously stacked containers. After placing the food in the microwave, he leaned against the counter, his fingers drumming against the cool marble as he waited. The soft hum of the microwave filled the silence.
Beom's mind wandered as he stood there. Did Yaroslav cook all this himself, or was it prepared by someone else? Either way, it felt strange. Everything about this situation was strange. Here he was, trapped in a luxurious mansion, with a fridge full of gourmet food and no freedom to speak of.
The microwave beeped, snapping Beom out of his thoughts. He carefully removed the container, the warmth seeping through the plastic to his fingertips. Grabbing a fork from a nearby drawer, he carried his food to the small dining table tucked in the corner of the kitchen.
Sitting down, Beom took a bite of the chicken, the flavors immediately melting on his tongue. He couldn't deny it—it was delicious. "At least the bastard can feed me well," he muttered between bites.
As he ate, his thoughts began to spiral again, drifting between anger, confusion, and an aching homesickness. He couldn't help but wonder how long he'd be stuck here. "If I'm going to be a prisoner, at least I'll eat like a king," he muttered to himself, trying to find humor in the absurdity of his situation.
He glanced around the empty kitchen, the silence almost oppressive. The food was good, sure, but it didn't fill the gnawing emptiness that came from being isolated, unsure of what tomorrow would bring. But for now, all Beom could do was eat and hope to make it through another day.
Yaroslav stood motionless, the biting cold wind tugging at his long coat as he faced the stone monument. The tomb of Alexei stood solemnly in front of him, a simple yet elegant marker surrounded by the icy embrace of winter. Frost clung to the edges of the stone, and the air smelled faintly of pine and earth. In his gloved hands, Yaroslav held a bouquet of fresh flowers—soft lavender roses intertwined with white lilies, Alexei's favorites. He stared at them for a moment before bending down and placing them gently at the base of the tomb, arranging them with care as though they were more fragile than they actually were.
"Alexei," he muttered softly, his breath visible in the cold air. His lips curved into a small, wistful smile, the kind that carried a weight of sorrow. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
His gaze lingered on the name etched into the stone, his eyes tracing each letter as though seeing it for the first time. A flood of memories rushed to him—moments of laughter, late-night talks, and shared dreams that now felt like distant echoes.
"There's someone I know now," Yaroslav began, his voice quiet but steady, the kind of tone that one uses when speaking to a ghost of the past. "Someone who looks so much like you it's... uncanny. When I first saw him, I thought my heart might stop. The resemblance, the way he carries himself—it was like you were standing in front of me again."
He chuckled softly, but there was a shakiness to it, as if it might crack under the weight of his emotions. "But he's not you," Yaroslav continued, his smile faltering as his voice grew tighter. "You and Beom-ki... you might look similar, but you're worlds apart. He's stubborn in a way you never were. He fights me at every turn, challenges me... refuses to bend."
The thought made him laugh again, a bitter edge to the sound. He bit his lip hard, his teeth digging into the flesh as he fought against the tears threatening to spill. His face flushed, partly from the cold and partly from the torrent of emotions surging within him.
"He's infuriating, really," Yaroslav said, his voice cracking slightly. "But somehow... somehow, he makes me think of you. I don't know if that's a good thing or a curse."
He straightened up, brushing the frost from his gloves as he glanced around the empty cemetery. The world around him was silent, save for the occasional gust of wind that rustled the trees. The silence felt heavier here, pressing down on him like an invisible weight.
"You know, Alexei," he said, his tone softening, "I've tried to move on. I've tried to forget. But you're always here." He tapped his chest lightly, just over his heart. "And now, with Beom-ki... I don't even know what to think anymore. I don't know if I'm holding onto him because of who he is or because of who he reminds me of."
He let out a shuddering breath, his shoulders trembling slightly as he fought to keep his composure. "But you're not coming back, are you?" he whispered, the words barely audible as they escaped his lips. "No matter how much I wish it, no matter how much I want to see you again... you're gone."
Yaroslav reached out, his gloved hand brushing against the cold stone of the tomb. He stayed like that for a moment, his eyes closing as he let himself feel the chill. It was almost as if he were reaching out to Alexei one last time, trying to bridge the gap between the living and the dead.
"Rest easy," he said finally, his voice firmer now, though his eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Wherever you are, Alexei, I hope it's better than this world. And I hope... I hope you'd forgive me for what I've become."
With that, he stepped back, his hands sliding into his coat pockets as he turned to leave. The wind picked up, swirling around him as though carrying his words away into the void. Yaroslav walked away slowly, his head bowed, leaving the flowers and his lingering grief behind. But even as he left, he couldn't shake the feeling that a part of him would always remain here, frozen in time with Alexei's memory.
Beom-ki sat in the hall, legs casually crossed as he flipped through a book he had picked off one of Yaroslav's shelves earlier. The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the walls adjusting to the cold outside. The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of the table lamp barely illuminating the pages of the book. He let out a soft sigh, snapping the book shut with a soft thud. It wasn't that the book wasn't interesting—it just wasn't holding his attention.
He glanced at the clock but realized with a start that he hadn't checked the date in days. It was easy to lose track of time in this place, with no real routine or purpose. Is it December already? he thought, running a hand through his slightly tousled hair. He flicked on the TV, scrolling mindlessly through the channels. Christmas commercials played back-to-back, reminding him of the holiday cheer he'd usually ignore. This year, it felt even more distant—a concept reserved for other people's lives, not his own.
As the screen flickered through scenes of decorated trees and snow-covered streets, Beom-ki's gaze drifted toward the window. The darkness outside was almost impenetrable, broken only by the faint glow of distant lights. He got up with a sigh, his stomach reminding him it had been hours since he'd last eaten. He wandered into the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing a plate of neatly arranged fruits—courtesy of Yaroslav's obsessive organization. The vibrant colors of the strawberries, kiwi slices, and orange segments contrasted starkly against the sterile white of the fridge. He grabbed a fork, casually spearing a piece of melon as he headed back to the hall.
Just as he sank back into the couch, a distant but distinct sound caught his attention. The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of helicopter blades cut through the stillness of the night, growing louder with every second. Beom-ki's fork paused mid-air, his eyes narrowing slightly as the noise became deafening. He turned his head toward the window, catching the faint reflection of the helicopter's lights bouncing off the glass.
The blades slowed as the helicopter descended into the courtyard, the ground trembling faintly under its weight. Beom-ki rolled his eyes and popped the piece of melon into his mouth. So, he's back, he thought, chewing slowly as he listened to the sound of boots crunching on gravel.
The door creaked open, and Yaroslav stepped inside, the cold clinging to him like a second skin. He didn't say anything, simply brushing past Beom-ki and heading upstairs. Beom-ki didn't bother looking at him, focusing instead on his plate of fruit.