The bathroom was dead cold — pale tiles climbed the walls in such a quiet symmetry, reflecting a faint overhead light that hummed without warmth. The air was cool, dry — extremely cold. The slight movement in the room came from the freezing water.
Vernon Krossvale sat along the horizontal edge of the bathtub, the chilling water swallowed his torso entirely — shoulders, collarbones, the powerful plane of his chest, the carved lines of muscle across his abdomen. Only the hard angle of his hip bones marked the boundary where water met air.
His face was under water.
Dark long hair drifted weightlessly around his head, long strands spreading and folding in slow currents, brushing against his temples and jaw. The water softened nothing about him. It distorted his features into wavering shadows, but his structure remained severe — strong brow with a cut on the left side, fierce eyes , straight nose, sharp cheekbones, mouth set even in unconscious stillness.
His eyes were closed.
Not in sleep, not in death.
In restraint.
The cold was merciless. It pressed against his skin, tightened over muscle, slid across scars.
His broad shoulders were immense even in stillness.
The muscle along his arms, his chest, his ribs, held density — strength that came from impact, from repeated collision with other bodies. Not sculpted by mirrors. Shaped by survival.
His newly reddish scars seem to glitter under water.
The large cut across his abdomen lay just beneath the surface, bending with the ripple of the water like a memory refusing to disappear.
Smaller marks traced his shoulders and ribs — thin, healed fractures of past violence. None ornamental. All earned.
His chest did not rise visibly beneath the surface.
He was holding his breath.
His hands rested loosely on the porcelain , fingers long and steady, knuckles pale from the temperature. No tremor. No urgency. Only endurance.
Outside the water, his lower body remained grounded in reality.
His long legs extended outward across the tiled floor, black pleated pants clinging darkly where the water had soaked through at the waist. Fabric traced the length of his thighs, then loosened toward his knees and shins, falling in heavy folds toward the ground. His large veiny feet were bare against cold tile.
The room carried no scent of soap, no warmth of comfort.
Just cold porcelain. Cold water. Cold light.
And him.
A broad-shouldered handsome man emerged under water . Motionless.
Half submerged between suffocation and control.
His body looked carved rather than grown — dense muscle layered over bone, built by impact, not vanity. There was no excess softness. No theatrical exaggeration. Strength sat on him naturally, as if violence had shaped him the way wind shapes stone.
Underwater, the world around him had turned distant and muffled. The faint hum of the light above became a low vibration through bone. The drip from the tap dissolved into a dull echo. Even his own heartbeat sounded remote, a muted thud somewhere beyond the water's veil.
He remained there.
Not drowning.
Not seeking peace.
Only testing how long he could endure silence before memory returned.
----
FLASHBACK
Under the cloak of a moonless night, the abandoned warehouse loomed like a forgotten tomb, its rusted metal beams echoing with sounds that clawed at the soul. Laughter ricocheted off the walls—harsh, guttural barks that twisted joy into something grotesque, a mockery of humanity. It was the kind of laughter that fed on suffering, growing louder with every whimper it elicited.
Vernon Krossvale, the man who never smiled, never cried, the tallest figure, wearing the longest black coat among all, bare chest being visible due to having no inner garment , stood in his usual spot, a few paces removed, a silhouette carved from indifference. He wasn't part of the frenzy, never intervened, just observed like a ghost haunting the edges of hell.
The six of them—Kai Viramont Krossvale, Lucas Krossvale, Damon Krossvale, Leon Krossvale, Victor Krossvale, and Ren Krossvale—swarmed like feral wolves, their boots scuffing the grimy concrete as they encircled the girl at the center. She was thin, fragile, her body trembling uncontrollably, eyes wide with terror that screamed louder than her voice ever could.
Her screams pierced the air, raw and desperate—"No! Please, stop! Oh God, no!"—as they grabbed at her, tearing clothes and dignity away in ragged strips, exposing pale skin that would soon be marred beyond recognition.
Vernon never looked directly. He didn't need to. The sounds painted the horror vividly enough: the slap of flesh against flesh, the girl's choked sobs escalating into agonized howls as they violated her without mercy.
Damon pinned her arms down with iron grips, his grin splitting his face like a fresh wound. "Look at her squirm, boys—feisty little thing, ain't she? Bet she's never had it this rough," he snarled, his fingers digging into her wrists until bones creaked and bruises bloomed like dark flowers, her cries sharpening into piercing shrieks: "It hurts! Stop, please, it hurts so much!"
Vernon, stood silently, as immovable as a statue forged from cold steel. He lifted his gaze just once, and the sight clawed at something deep inside him, a tragedy unfolding in slow, excruciating motion.
Her boyfriend was already on the ground, curled and broken, hands trembling violently as tears carved filthy rivers through the grime on his face.
Lucas loomed above him like an executioner, boots slamming down in vicious rhythm—each kick a hammer blow that cracked bone and tore flesh. The first smashed into the boy's ribs with a wet snap, splintering them inward; he convulsed, spitting a thick spray of blood that painted the concrete red. Another boot drove into his face—his nose collapsed with a sickening crunch, cartilage pulverized, blood exploding outward in a hot mist that flecked Lucas's jeans.
The boy screamed, raw , broken. "Please," he begged, "Let her go... don't touch her... I beg you... she's innocent , she's everything to me... let her go... please....I will do anything for you.... please let her go...."
It was a plea born of love, helpless and pure, as he watched the woman he cherished being devoured alive by these monsters, her cries intertwining with his own desperate sobs
Lucas laughed, low and cruel, grinding his heel into the boy's shattered hand until fingers bent backward at unnatural angles, bones grinding audibly. "Keep begging, lover boy— your girlfriend is our to have fun with. " He stomped again, this time on the boy's thigh, the femur cracking like dry wood under the force.
Leon laughed, a high-pitched cackle that grated like nails on metal. "Hold her steady, Damon. I want my turn clean—gonna make her remember this forever."
He shoved forward, his hands rough and invading, forcing himself into her with brutal thrusts that tore at her insides, her body convulsing in waves of excruciating pain she couldn't escape.
She screamed relentlessly, her voice cracking into fragments—"Help me! Someone, please! No more, I can't take it!"—as blood began to trickle down her thighs, the metallic scent mingling with the warehouse's dank rot.
Ren joined in, grabbing her legs and spreading them wider, his nails raking deep gashes along her inner thighs. "Scream louder, bi tch—we love a good concert," he mocked, plunging in alongside Leon, the dual invasion stretching and ripping her apart, her howls turning guttural, animalistic, as if her very soul was being shredded.
Unable to view his girlfriend in this state, the poor boy screamed , "Stop! Stop... please, don't do this to her !!!! I beg you !!"
Lucas sneered , "Shut up, worm—your girl's our toy now." He stomped on the boy's hand, bones crunching under his boot, eliciting a fresh howl of agony as the boy writhed, still pleading: "Lana! Lana, I'm here... don't look, baby, close your eyes... everything will be alright..."
His girlfriend Lana closed her eyes harder as she heard her boyfriend's gentle voice. Thinking this hell might end soon.
He crawled forward anyway, inch by agonizing inch, toward the center of the nightmare, toward his girlfriend whose screams echoed his own despair. His fingers clawed at the concrete, nails breaking and bleeding, leaving smeared trails of red, but he kept moving, kept reaching, as if his will alone could shield her from the horror.
Victor joined in, kicking the boy's side with steel-toed boots, the impact echoing like thunder. "Pathetic. Begging like a dog—makes it more fun, though. Cry more, lover boy; your tears are lube for us."
The boy's body jerked, a rib snapping audibly with a sharp crack, blood bubbling from his lips as he coughed and screamed: "No! Leave her alone! I'll do anything... kill me, just stop hurting her!"
But Victor only ground his heel into the boy's back, vertebrae popping under the pressure, his laughter mingling with the boy's tortured wails.
To be continued...