Chapter 296
BRUISED
It was nearing midnight, and three of the nine moons hung high in the sky, visible through a tall window. Their pale light spilled quietly into the room, washing the world in a soft, eerie glow.
Each moon wore a white halo around its edge, faint yet unmistakable, as if the night itself bent to acknowledge their presence. The sight was stunning—beautiful in a way that felt distant rather than comforting.
They watched the world below in silence.
From this height, everything beneath them seemed small. Streets, buildings, and lives blurred together into something insignificant, reduced to light and shadow. It was as though the moons were divine beings suspended in the heavens, gazing down upon ants that scurried unaware of the eyes above them. Perfect, unchanging, untouched by time—they observed without judgment, without mercy.
Their perfection stood in quiet contrast to the imperfection below.
The world beneath them breathed, struggled, bled, and healed, yet the moons remained exactly as they were, casting the same cold light they always had. They did not care for exhaustion or pain, for ambition or fear. They only existed, eternal witnesses to everything that rose and fell under their glow.
And beneath that light, somewhere between rest and ruin, the night continued on.
And continued on it did until the pale moonlight paid its ethereal attention to the room, its presence gently brushing across the skin of a man and a woman both lying upon a large bed.
They were tangled close to one another, the brown skin of the woman resting atop the pale white of the man beneath her. There was no urgency in the way they lay, only quiet closeness, limbs overlapping naturally as though the world beyond the room had momentarily ceased to exist.
Moonlight spilled across them in soft gradients, tracing the subtle rise and fall of breathing chests, slipping along shoulders and collarbones before fading into shadow once more. Their features could only faintly be made out, half-formed by the dance of light and darkness, creating the illusion that they were less flesh and more silhouettes carved from silver and night.
The room itself remained still, wrapped in silence broken only by the slow rhythm of shared breath. Outside, the moons continued their watch, indifferent yet ever-present, while inside, time felt suspended—caught between the quiet aftermath of the day and whatever dawn would eventually bring.
Nothing needed to be said. Nothing needed to move.
For this moment, existence was reduced to warmth, closeness, and the gentle glow of moonlight bearing witness.
Until it was suddenly broken.
The moment shattered in a quiet, almost fragile way, by a soft, crisp whisper from the woman. Her lips hovered close to the man's ear, her breath warm against his skin as she spoke, her voice gentle enough to feel like it belonged to the night itself as it slipped into his ear canals.
"Do you feel a bit better now?" she whispered.
There was a pause.
Then the man's arms tightened around her, pulling her closer, as if afraid she might slip away if he didn't hold on. "Of course."
A faint smile curved across her lips. Her eyes shimmered softly in the dim light, twinkling like distant stars as she studied his face. For a moment, she simply rested there, listening to his breathing.
Then she sighed.
"But I noticed something…" she said slowly. "Why was… well… 'it'… bruised?"
There was a sharp intake of breath, sudden and strained, like someone had been stabbed.
After a brief, awkward fit of silence, the male voice replied indignantly, "Don't worry… *'it'* will recover… very soon… I promise."
"I hope so… Normally you could go on for longer…" she said softly, her tone was light, teasing rather than disappointed. "Not that I mind."
Silence followed, but not empty. If one listened closely, they would hear the faint grinding of teeth, followed by a muffled grumble pushed into the sheets, words barely coherent but unmistakably irritated.
"…that fucking little spawnling…"
Suddenly, the man sat up, voice rising with exaggerated valor as if declaring war against fate itself. "No! Don't worry! I can go again! I can do it ten—no, a hundred more times! Come here!"
Before he could gather whatever dignity remained, he was promptly pushed back down. The woman's laughter rang out, light and melodic, like the chiming of heavenly bells.
"Ha ha ha, there's no need to overwork yourself," she said, still smiling as she pressed him gently into the bed. "Just relax… You can show me all about those 'hundred times' at a later date," she added, her voice dipping teasingly at the end.
Before he could rebuke her—or embarrass himself further—she placed her elegant hand over his lips. His protest came out as nothing more than a muffled sound, swallowed beneath her palm, as her laughter softened and the room returned once more to its quiet, moonlit calm.
Suddenly, he stopped resisting.
He lay still beneath her, staring up at the ceiling as if something far above it had seized his attention. The playful tension drained from his body in an instant, his disposition shifting so abruptly that it unsettled the room itself.
The woman's expression creased. He would normally protest more, tease back, turn the moment into something lighter. But ever since he had returned, there had been something different clinging to him— something that didn't belong.
She could feel it now.
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't exhaustion.
It was overwhelming sadness.
The man slowly reached up, gently taking the hand she had pressed to his face. Under her questioning gaze, he brought it closer and placed a light kiss against her palm, his thumb softly caressing her skin as if enjoying the sensation.
Then he spoke, his voice was quiet, stripped of bravado.
"You will never guess what I found out today."
Her brows knit slightly. "What is it?"
There was a pause—longer than before.
"…It's about Ryan."
Her body trembled. She stared at him, surprise flashing across her face before something else settled in—recognition, dawning and cold. A faint realization crossed her features as her voice dropped.
"Where is he?"