The cold water clung to Vernon like a shroud, its icy grip unrelenting, seeping into his pores and numbing the edges of his consciousness. But it couldn't numb the core—the festering wound that the flashback had ripped open anew. Guilt coiled in his chest like barbed wire, tightening with every muffled heartbeat.
He saw it all again, not in blurred fragments, but in razor-sharp clarity: that innocent girl being torn apart by the br easts, her boyfriend screaming his lungs out to save her, the boy's pleading eyes, dimming as Vernon's boots crushed life from him.
All he could do was to beat the poor guy, give him death, the only peace that could make him escape that devastating hell.
Trauma gnawed at him, a hollow ache that whispered of his own buried losses—all the innocent lives he couldn't save, all the people he had to kill, all the innocent girls he had seen getting torn apart.
He had surrendered all his innocence long ago to his evil father. He was told he was born a monster, and unfortunately, he believed it.
Pain radiated from his scars, not just the physical ones glittering under the water, but the invisible fractures in his soul, where love had once tried to take root only to be uprooted by violence. He was a vessel of endurance, but endurance was its own torment—a life sentence in a body that refused to break, even as his mind screamed for release.
The grand mansion loomed around him, a sprawling edifice of shadowed opulence that mocked his isolation. High ceilings arched like cathedral vaults, adorned with intricate moldings of gold leaf and crystal chandeliers that dangled like frozen tears, casting fractured light across marble floors veined with obsidian. Servants moved like ghosts through the labyrinthine halls—dozens of them, uniformed in crisp black and white, their footsteps hushed on Persian rugs that swallowed sound. Maids polished silver in the distant drawing rooms, footmen stood sentinel at towering oak doors carved with snarling gargoyles, and cooks labored in the vast kitchens below, preparing feasts for a master who rarely ate. The air carried faint whispers of lavender polish and aged wood, but in the bathroom—a sanctuary of white marble and gilded fixtures—it was sterile, devoid of life, save for the drip of the faucet echoing like a metronome of regret.
A sharp knock shattered the silence, reverberating through the heavy mahogany door that separated the bathroom from the opulent master suite beyond.
"Master Vernon? Please, open the door," came the voice of Mr. Theodore Eldrin, laced with the tremor of age and unwavering concern.
The old caretaker, his once-straight posture now slightly bowed by twenty years of loyal service, pressed his gnarled hand against the wood, his liver-spotted fingers trembling.
His uniform—a tailored black suit, starched white shirt, and vest embroidered with the Krossvale crest—hung loosely on his frail frame, the silver buttons dulled by decades of polishing.
Mr. Eldrin had been with the family since Vernon was brought, the only constant in a world of fleeting shadows, the sole soul who saw beyond the stoic facade to the boy he had raised like a son.
Vernon remained submerged, eyes still closed, the water's chill a distant echo to the storm raging within. He didn't stir, didn't acknowledge the plea.
Time stretched, the knocks growing more insistent, Mr. Eldrin's voice cracking with worry. "Master, the whole night passed. The whole morning passed. It has been hours since you locked yourself in there. I obeyed your order. I haven't interrupted you all night. But my lord, how long will you be inside? I heard the water running all night—please, let me in. The storm last night was fierce; you returned drenched, coat heavy with blood and rain, and now... now you're still in that cold bath?"
Minutes bled into what felt like eternity, the old man's knocks softening to desperate taps, his forehead resting against the door in quiet despair.
Finally, Vernon surfaced with a slow, deliberate motion, water cascading from his dark hair in rivulets that traced the sharp lines of his jaw and the fresh cut on his brow.
He rose from the tub like a specter from the grave, the freezing liquid sluicing off his sculpted torso, revealing the taut muscles of his abdomen and the jagged scar across it, now prickled with gooseflesh.
His black pleated pants clung sodden to his hips and thighs, the fabric heavy and dark, pooling water on the tile as he stepped out barefoot, his veiny feet leaving wet prints on the cold floor.
No towel, no haste—he moved with mechanical indifference, as if his body were a machine he no longer cared to maintain.
He unlocked the door with a click that echoed tragically in the vast emptiness of the mansion, swinging it open to reveal Mr. Eldrin's weathered face, etched with lines of paternal anguish.
Vernon's expression was a mask of stone—eyes flat and unreadable, mouth a straight line, no flicker of warmth or acknowledgment. He stood there, dripping, the chill air raising faint steam from his skin.
Mr. Eldrin's eyes widened, taking in the sight—Vernon's half-naked form, the pallor beneath his pale skin, the subtle shiver he refused to admit.
"Oh, Master Vernon," he murmured, voice thick with emotion, stepping forward as if to embrace him but halting, knowing the boundaries.
"You came home last night utterly soaked from the rain, drenched in the blood; your coat dripping like a river, and now... you're still wet, still in those sodden clothes. You'll catch a fever, my boy—please, let me fetch a towel, dry clothes. The servants are worried sick; they've been whispering in the halls all morning. Please… allow me to help you."
Vernon barely registered the words, his mind a fog of detachment, the guilt a dull roar that drowned out concern.
He turned away carelessly, walking through the hall, water trailing behind him like tears unshed. Life held no value to him anymore—a hollow vessel adrift, where self-preservation was an afterthought, punishment a quiet preference.
He had disposed of bodies, erased suffering, but his own lingered, untouchable, and he welcomed the fever's whisper as a deserved penance.
Mr. Eldrin followed, undeterred, his steps frail but determined, the only man in this gilded prison who truly cared—the father figure who had bandaged childhood scrapes, treated him when he was sick , raised him and now watched helplessly as the boy he loved eroded from within.
"Master, your forehead—it's burning," he said, reaching out with a trembling hand to press against Vernon's brow, feeling the unnatural heat radiating despite the chill.
Tragic devotion shone in his faded blue eyes, a love unreciprocated in its depth, born of years watching Vernon harden against the world's cruelties.
"You've a fever already, I knew it. Please, take the medicines—"
Vernon shrugged off the touch with absent indifference.
He kept moving forward.
Mr. Eldrin followed him, voice soft and urgent. "Master Vernon, your fever is climbing. Please—let me give you the tablets now. You're burning up, and you've barely slept. Please take the medicines. I won't be able to rest until I know you're alright."
Vernon paused at the threshold of the master suite, back to the old man, shoulders rigid. His voice came low, flat, stripped of inflection.
"I won't take them."
Mr. Eldrin's breath caught. "But master—"
Vernon turned just enough for the light to catch the hard line of his jaw.
"It's better if I don't take medicine. I don't like taking them."
Mr. Eldrin's voice echoed , trying to convince him again —. "But master—"
"And if I don't… a monster like me will surely die. This city will find peace. It's better that way. And.....(a pause) it will be easy for me to get rid of all of this."
His gaze drifted somewhere distant, past the gilded walls.
"It's only the death that I await."
The words landed like stones in still water. Eldrin's face crumpled, eyes glistening with the helpless love of a man who had watched a child grow into ruin.
"Vernon," he whispered, using the name he had not dared speak aloud in years. "You are not a monster. You are my boy—"
Vernon replied coldly—
"No I'm not. And you should stop calling me that."
Mr. Eldrin felt an ache in his heart . But before he could say anything more, Vernon went inside another room and locked the door.
In the vast master bedroom—walls paneled in dark walnut, heavy velvet drapes the color of old blood—Vernon stripped off the soaked pants without ceremony. They fell to the floor in a wet heap. Naked now, he crossed to the wardrobe, broad back flexing with old scars that mapped every year of violence. He pulled on fresh black linen trousers, loose but tailored to his long legs, the waistband sitting low on sharp hip bones. Over that, a simple black cashmere sweater, thin enough to trace the hard planes of his chest and shoulders, sleeves pushed to his elbows to reveal corded forearms veined and scarred. No shirt beneath. No pretense of formality. Barefoot still, he left the room without looking back.
Mr. Eldrin followed, voice never rising above gentle pleading.
"At least eat something. You haven't touched food since yesterday. The fever will take you faster if you starve yourself. Master Vernon—please. I'm begging you."
They descended the grand staircase together, Vernon leading, Mr. Eldrin a few steps behind like a shadow that refused to fade. The mansion breathed around them—servants gliding soundlessly through arched doorways, silver trays balanced, eyes lowered in practiced deference. Crystal chandeliers dripped light across marble and gilt, but the air felt heavy, funereal.
They entered the grand hall.
At the far end, dominating the wall above the long staircase, hung the portrait.
Vernon Krossvale, bare-chested, captured in oils years earlier. The artist had rendered him with almost cruel precision: skin taut over dense muscle, shoulders impossibly wide, abdomen carved in deep relief, every scar painted with reverent detail—the long slash across his ribs, the smaller ones fanning over his pectorals like silver threads. His long dark hair tied back fell loose to his shoulders, damp as though freshly emerged from water or battle. The pose was half-turned, one arm bent, fist loosely clenched at his side, the other hand resting against a shadowed column. His gaze stared straight out—fierce, unyielding, heartbreakingly beautiful. A man who looked carved from storm and stone, handsome in the way predators are handsome: lethal, untouchable, tragic. The portrait loomed twenty feet high, lit by concealed spotlights, so that even now it seemed to watch the living Vernon with quiet accusation. In the portrait, he seemed like the sexiest man alive, with the most fierce gaze .
He did not look up at it.
With heavy steps, he walked towards the dinning hall.
Servants moved like automatons around the table—twelve place settings of silver and bone china, though only one would be used. They set down platters with practiced grace: roasted pheasant glazed dark with honey and thyme, steamed asparagus slick with butter, truffle risotto steaming faintly, a decanter of red wine the color of dried blood, fresh bread still warm from the ovens. Crystal glasses caught the chandelier light and threw fractured rainbows across the polished wood.
Vernon sat at the head of the table, the massive carved chair dwarfing even his frame. He stared at the food without interest, elbows on the table, chin resting on steepled fingers. Steam rose in slow curls. The scent of herbs and meat filled the hall, rich and inviting, but his expression remained blank.
Mr. Eldrin hovered at his shoulder, voice cracking now.
"Just a few bites, Master. For strength. You can't keep punishing yourself like this. "
Vernon's gaze drifted over the untouched plate. After a long silence he reached for the fork. He looked at the sharp edges of the fork, glittering from the light. But he didn't feel like eating.
He didn't have the appetite.
To be continued.....