Meanwhile, Sion had fallen asleep under the blows of alcohol and the bottles he had downed.
Sion opened his eyes all at once, as if ripped from a nightmare.
He lifted his head from the bed, still sticky with cold sweat, and his gaze fell straight onto the digital clock sitting on his nightstand.
6:00 a.m.
He sat up so fast the sheet slid to the floor.
A brutal dizziness. A flash of raw panic in his gut.
— No… no no no no…
He ran a trembling hand over his face, his heart pounding so hard he felt it was going to tear him apart from the inside.
6:00. Nari finished at 5:30.
She was waiting for him. She had been waiting for thirty minutes.
And she hadn't sent a single message.
That silence slashed his insides more violently than a knife.
The same thought looped, devouring:
"She's going to think I abandoned her." "She's going to think I'm leaving her alone." "She's going to have a breakdown… she's going to panic… she's going to hate me…"
His fingers shook so much he could barely pull on his pants. He knocked over an empty bottle while grabbing his jacket, swore, almost tripped on his way to the door.
He didn't even bother turning off the lights.
He ran down the stairs, two steps at a time, breath short, mind in shreds, every heartbeat hammering his skull like a hammer.
When he reached the street, he rushed to his car.
His hands shook so badly he could barely find his keys.
— FUCK…
He finally opened the door, threw himself inside, slammed it so hard the bodywork vibrated.
The engine roared the second he turned the key.
And then…
His whole body tensed.
He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, eyes fixed straight ahead, into nothing.
— She must already be there… alone… waiting for me…
A surge of pure terror rose in his throat.
— Nari… wait for me…
Then he floored the accelerator.
The car lunged forward.
He drove like a madman. Like a man fleeing death. Like a man running after the only thing he never wanted to lose.
On Nari's side:
Sion's father.
Standing in the doorway. Anthracite suit. Hands in his pockets. Steel gaze, cold, cutting.
A thin smile. A smile that held nothing human.
— Good evening, Nari, he said calmly. His voice was soft. Too soft. A softness that smelled of threat.
Nari's blood froze instantly. Her towel trembled around her body.
— Wh… what… are you doing here…?
He tilted his head slightly, as if the question amused him.
— I think it's time we had… a little talk.
The door closed with a soft click, almost tender, too calm for what had just entered.
Nari took one step back, then two, breath trapped in her throat, eyes wide, skin already ice-cold where his gaze had touched her.
Jeon Minho.
Sion's father.
The same golden eyes, but older, colder, more rotten, as if time had eaten away the gold and left only rust.
He said nothing. He stepped forward. Slowly.
Every step measured, every rustle of his tailor-made suit echoing in the silence of the apartment, every breath too steady, too controlled, like a predator who knows the prey has nowhere to run.
Nari backed up again. Her feet hit the wall. Cold plaster against her back. She was trapped.
He kept coming.
Until he was so close she could smell the scent of his exorbitantly expensive cologne mixed with something darker, sicker, until his breath grazed her throat, until his lips almost brushed her skin.
And then he spoke. Voice low. Whispered. Like a poisoned caress.
— I want to taste what obsesses my son so much.
Nari's heart stopped dead. One missed beat. Two.
The blood drained from her face, her hands, her legs. She wasn't breathing anymore.
Instinctively, she pushed him away. With all her strength.
Palms flat on his chest, she shoved, she clawed, she screamed without sound, a silent scream that died in her throat.
But he didn't move an inch.
He grabbed her hair in one swift, brutal motion, closed his fist in the black strands, yanked her head back with a violence that made her neck crack, baring her throat like an offering.
— You've got some fight in you, little one, he breathed against her skin, his tongue sliding slowly, wet, disgusting, over the vein pulsing wildly beneath her throat. This is going to be fun.
She fought. Really. With every ounce of strength she had left.
Her nails raked his face, left red lines on his cheek, she kicked with knees and elbows, she bit at the air, she finally screamed, a hoarse, torn scream that ripped from her throat like a beast being slaughtered.
— LET GO OF ME! YOU SICK FUCK! LET GO OF ME!
But every movement only seemed to excite him more.
His eyes gleamed brighter. His smile widened.
He pulled harder on her hair, forced her down to her knees, her face level with his belt.
— You fight well…
I like it when they fight.
She spat. Right in his face. A spit full of hate, tears, rage.
He wiped it off slowly. Without anger. With terrifying slowness. And then he struck. Not hard.
Just enough for her head to hit the wall. Just enough for stars to explode behind her eyelids.
— You're going to learn, he murmured, his hand sliding to her throat, squeezing just enough for her to feel death brush her skin.
You're going to learn to obey.
She was crying now. Silently. Tears running down her cheeks, over her lips, into her mouth open on a scream that no longer came.
He leaned in.
Even closer.
His breath against her ear.
— I'm going to destroy you.