Yang’s Master Chapter 8.1 - Rebel

The sunlight piercing through the large glass window was dazzling, the breeze coming through the wide-open window was so cool it felt cold, and the blanket covering his body was soft and warm. It wasn’t heaven. Yang Euijoo thought with his eyes open. No matter how many times he considered it, he had no right to enter heaven.

His face, showing no signs of healing, couldn’t hide its dazed expression as he scanned the spacious room. White, billowing sheer curtains, elegant dark wood furniture, and a red leather sofa made the room strikingly beautiful. This place was… Yang Euijoo gazed at the ceiling, still dazed. The bed, absorbing the bright light, was enormous, surrounded by four grand pillars and draped with a flowing canopy that completely enclosed the space.

A thin tube extended from that space, connecting an IV drip to his arm.

“…Ah.”

A soft sigh escaped. Getting out of the basement was too easy. How long had he suffered in agony for not doing that simple thing? Tormented by his own incompetence, Yang Euijoo rose from the bed. His body wasn’t as uncomfortable as he’d expected. Rather, the ease of resting in such a comfortable place caused an itchy discomfort.

“Oh, you shouldn’t get up yet.”

Someone stopped Yang Euijoo. He paused at the gentle voice. Someone entered the room, lifted the canopy, and smiled at him. It was a middle-aged woman he’d never seen before, wearing a long skirt and blouse. She didn’t seem like a maid working in the mansion. She gently laid Yang Euijoo back on the bed and skillfully removed the IV needle from his arm.

“You had such a high fever, you were sick for three full days. For now, don’t overdo it and rest in bed. The window’s open for ventilation, but I’ll close it soon, so don’t open it on your own. Cold air is poison for a fever.”

Her long string of words didn’t feel chatty. Yang Euijoo quietly looked at the middle-aged woman and asked.

“Where is this place?”

“Hong Kong Island.”

The woman answered with a warm smile. For a moment, she reminded him of Li Su, and Yang Euijoo felt a dizzying vertigo.

“Hong Kong Island…”

Yang Euijoo looked at the large window. Beyond the building, perched on a high hill, green trees and mountain scenery unfolded. It felt unfamiliar, as if such a landscape could exist in Hong Kong. The woman smiled as if she understood.

“This place is high up, even for Hong Kong Island. It’s got ‘Hill’ in its name, so that’s only natural, right? Still, the air’s good, making it an excellent place for a patient to recover. Your lungs aren’t in great shape. A young person shouldn’t be like that already.”

Yang Euijoo, understanding only half her words, stared at the fluttering green leaves.

“I’m Mei.”

At her introduction, Yang Euijoo turned his head. The name was too familiar. But the woman looked nothing like Mei.

“Mei Wood, the private nurse of this mansion’s owner.”

Was it coincidence or fate that someone with the same name appeared? Yang Euijoo nodded, thinking it might be Cheon Yeomyung’s arrangement.

“…Yang Euijoo.”

“Alright, Mr. Euijoo, nice to meet you.”

Yang Euijoo nodded silently at Mei Wood’s greeting. Unfazed by his unsociable demeanor, she smiled and stood.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight. Sleep more, then eat something when you wake.”

“Okay.”

Yang Euijoo answered obediently. Even without Mei Wood’s urging, he had no choice but to rest. Just speaking a few words made him short of breath, with fatigue pressing his joints painfully. As he closed his eyes compliantly, Mei Wood tucked the blanket over him. Yang Euijoo fell into a deep sleep, feeling the warm sensation of light pressing on his body. He chuckled in disbelief as he drifted off.

He was angry at someone, but it wasn’t Cheon Yeomyung. Yang Euijoo didn’t have nightmares. Waking from a deep sleep in a comfortable space, he saw a familiar man. Sitting at the foot of the bed, he was watching the sleeping Yang Euijoo. The canopy, draped like a barrier, was fully raised. The sun had set.

It was night. Unlike the basement, where day and night were indistinguishable in constant darkness, time was clear here. Yang Euijoo swallowed his anger.

Beyond Cheon Yeomyung’s quiet shoulder, a portrait of a woman with snakes for hair hung on the wall opposite the bed. Her gloomy, fierce eyes gleamed as if alive in the dark green light—an unsettling painting.

“Medusa?”

Yang Euijoo asked in a low voice.

“Tisiphone.”

Cheon Yeomyung answered differently. It was a name Yang Euijoo had never heard. Weren’t all snake-haired figures Medusa? Instead of feeling ashamed of his limited knowledge, Yang Euijoo looked at Cheon Yeomyung.

“Do you know?”

The man asked.

“No.”

“The voice of vengeance.”

Cheon Yeomyung spoke steadily.

“A woman who avenges murder. A goddess who judges the crime of killing kin.”

A mythical figure, then. Yang Euijoo looked again at the goddess named Tisiphone. Wrapped in ominous green snakes and blazing red torches, she glared directly at the bed. He’d never understand the mind of someone who hung such a painting in a bedroom.

“The doctor said mold damaged your lungs. Your skin’s not great either, but… not rotting, so that’s something, right? That place wasn’t exactly livable.”

Yang Euijoo listened to Cheon Yeomyung as if it were someone else’s story. Ignoring talk of his condition or long-term treatment, he asked something he was curious about.

“How long was I there?”

Cheon Yeomyung glanced at Yang Euijoo, surprised by the question. His eyes were sharp, not like someone who’d just woken up. Cheon Yeomyung liked that part of him. His irritable, sensitive nature shone clearly, unbroken. Seeing those firmly pressed lips, as if the moment of submission in the basement never happened, Cheon Yeomyung tossed something to Yang Euijoo.

“Don’t ask useless things. Read that instead.”

“What…”

The heavy hardcover’s title was hard to read. The Scar… Yang Euijoo stumbled over the words, and Cheon Yeomyung read it for him.

“The Scarlet Letter.”

The man’s English had a classic British accent, resonating strongly on the last word, evoking a famous bridge glowing red at sunset.

“Practice reading it from start to finish.”

Yang Euijoo, holding the heavy book, looked at Cheon Yeomyung. The man blinked as if asking what was wrong. He looked unmistakably tired. In the basement’s darkness, crawling in submission, Yang Euijoo hadn’t noticed, but Cheon Yeomyung’s face seemed worn by someone’s torment.

“Reading aloud?”

Before Yang Euijoo could fully ask, a knock pierced the uneasy silence. A voice came from beyond the thick door.

“Boss, it’s time to leave.”

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

Cheon Yeomyung sighed briefly and stood. Yang Euijoo belatedly noticed he was dressed for a party, wearing a dress coat. The cummerbund tightly wrapping his waist and the white tie made him look taller and leaner, the coat’s long tails falling behind. Cheon Yeomyung tilted his head, brushed back his disheveled bangs with a gloved hand, and put on a silk hat.

Yang Euijoo didn’t know where he was going, but he looked like he was attending a party of refined British aristocrats. Dressed more like a character from an old novel’s upper class, Cheon Yeomyung pointed at the book.

“There’s a guy who likes affairs.”

“…”

“He wants to have sex while listening to it being read, but my lover doesn’t seem great at English.”

Cheon Yeomyung sneered coldly. His gaze on Yang Euijoo remained icy. Though the setting had changed, their dynamic hadn’t, his attitude overbearing.

“Talk about a rough fate. Teaching someone at my age.”

“Can’t you just not do it?”

“Teacher.”

No strand of hair touched the forehead beneath the hat. The impeccably dressed man called Yang Euijoo.

“It’s not over yet.”

Behind Cheon Yeomyung, the snake-haired goddess still sang of vengeance. Whether the man sleeping under ominous punishment believed he was exacting revenge or preparing to accept it, Yang Euijoo couldn’t tell.

“I’ll be back late. Sleep. If you don’t want to, read that.”

Yang Euijoo couldn’t possibly read a book he didn’t understand. He stared at the red hardcover again. Letter… Cheon Yeomyung’s sharp pronunciation seemed to lick his ears. Guessing the book’s story involved affairs wasn’t hard.

Was leaving the basement really right? Yang Euijoo tossed the book carelessly to the floor and pulled the blanket over himself. Naturally, sleep didn’t come.

Cheon Yeomyung didn’t lie this time. He returned late. His return came when Yang Euijoo, oversleeping, received a late breakfast near lunch. Sitting at the table, picking at his food, Yang Euijoo saw Cheon Yeomyung slump across from him, pulling over an untouched plate of salmon steak. He smelled of cigarettes and alcohol.

Unlike before, Cheon Yeomyung wasn’t excessive. He silently devoured a piece of salmon with hollandaise, then ate bread with poached eggs and cheese. While Yang Euijoo nibbled fruit, the man nearly finished Yang Euijoo’s breakfast portion. Finally, coffee. Calling it a British breakfast, he gulped down strong black coffee brought by a maid and stood.

“Finished reading it?”

“No.”

“If you don’t want to be locked in the basement, figure it out.”

Bored with arguing, Cheon Yeomyung replied to himself and grabbed his coat.

A maid quickly brought a long black leather coat. Tightly belting it, he raised the collar. A cold winter vibe emanated, if winter meant much in Hong Kong.

“Mr. Li is waiting downstairs.”

“Rose Rock?”

“With him.”

“Good.”

Cheon Yeomyung nodded at the maid’s reply. Without glancing at Yang Euijoo, the mansion’s owner ordered.

“Feed him more. Looking like a skewer ruins my reputation.”

“I will.”

Cheon Yeomyung closed the door and left. Yang Euijoo set down the dragon fruit he’d speared, twisting his lips. Hearing himself treated like a pig to be fattened for sausage killed his appetite further. But before the maid could speak, Yang Euijoo stuffed bread into his mouth without tearing it. With no pride or dignity, he couldn’t afford to be offended by Cheon Yeomyung’s words. He scraped up the food Cheon Yeomyung left and stood. The young, chatty maid smiled, lifting the empty tray.

“You ate it all! Well done. Eating a lot helps recovery.”

“Okay.”

No reason to snap at the young maid. Yang Euijoo left the table and approached the window. It was locked. The maid, passing the empty tray outside, smiled and approached.

“Want some fresh air?”

Opening the window was allowed, then. Yang Euijoo silently watched her slide the heavy lock and fling the window open. Tying the curtains to keep them from flapping, she handed him the familiar hardcover.

“The master said to read up to the marked page. If it’s hard, use this dictionary.”

She kindly offered an English-Chinese dictionary. Yang Euijoo almost said he wasn’t Chinese and couldn’t read Chinese characters well but gave up and took the book. It was unreadable from the first line. Realizing within five minutes how little his alphabet knowledge helped, he scribbled on the expensive novel with a pencil the maid found.

Sailor shorthand and abbreviations wandered over the text. To the maid, he looked studious, so she took out sewing from her apron and worked. Yang Euijoo crouched in the quiet room, flipping pages and scribbling, occasionally glancing outside. A cool breeze blew.

The view was completely different from the Kowloon Peninsula mansion. Instead of a blue-tiled pool and artificial sandy beach, mountains and trees filled the window. A hilltop mansion. Yang Euijoo rubbed his eyes, admiring the vibrant, un-Hong Kong-like scenery. The cold breeze brushed his pale cheeks, long untouched by light.

Checking her stitches, the maid glanced at the guest. Told to call him “teacher,” he seemed young and sensitive. Not local, with ashen hair and eyes, his speech was rough and sharp. His nails were ruined, his skin raw, on the verge of bedsores.

So pretty, yet so worn. Watching Yang Euijoo stare outside, she realized the room was chilly and stood.

“I heard you need to stay warm, so I’ll close the window.”

She met his eyes and closed it. Yang Euijoo made a reluctant sound, covered his scribbled book, and stood. The maid, not seeing his doodles, handed him a medicine packet.

“Ms. Wood prescribed these. Take them and sleep. I’ll prepare tea for the afternoon.”

She placed a cushion on a chair for his comfort. Yang Euijoo nodded, holding the book. His mind was still foggy, half-broken.

The man returning from a sleepless night didn’t slap him or dunk him in cold water, and the room was neither hot nor cold. Without the mad goddess portrait, Yang Euijoo might’ve thought the basement was a lie.

But looking at his hands, he knew. No falsehood in his thoughts or memories. In the darkness he hadn’t had time to check, his nails were a mess. He hadn’t rolled that roughly, yet some were torn off, others cracked, making finger movement hard. Late pain came to his bandaged, disinfected fingers. He had many wounds. Why? Realizing they came from torture or struggling under the man, his mood soured.

Resistance was pointless. Trying to hurt Cheon Yeomyung only injured Yang Euijoo. His body wasn’t that important; spreading his legs would’ve been easier. If he met his past self, he’d warn against meddling.

The maid brought lukewarm water. Many pills. Yang Euijoo swallowed them without fuss, draped his arms over the soft cushion, and sank in.

In the warm room, he felt self-loathing. Laughter came amid warm air, daylight, and quality food. He’d crawled for this. Yang Euijoo closed his eyes irritably.

“Oh…”

The maid murmured. Buried in an embroidered cushion, Yang Euijoo, limbs sprawled, looked like a displayed wooden puppet. Falling asleep fast, his head tilted. Dark shadows lay under his dozing eyes, but they didn’t mar his ominous beauty.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she hesitated. He seemed too deep in sleep to wake. Sleeping in a chair would be uncomfortable. Unsure, the maid cautiously stepped toward Yang Euijoo.

“Teacher?”

She called softly, but no answer. His dozing face looked peaceful. Sleeping as if he’d die otherwise, Yang Euijoo made the maid grimace. Deciding to wake him for bed, she reached for his shoulder.

But before her white-gloved hand touched him, a large, firm hand in tight black leather gloves grabbed her wrist. The maid nearly screamed but, seeing the face, closed her mouth before waking the guest.

“Shh.”

Cheon Yeomyung, leaning down, put a finger to his lips. The maid’s eyes widened, staring at the mansion’s owner and employer. When had he returned to the second floor? Wearing only a shirt, no suit jacket, he slowly released her wrist with a nod.

“It’s fine, go.”

The maid nodded politely, moving silently, heels raised. Before leaving, she glanced back. Cheon Yeomyung, carefully supporting Yang Euijoo’s tilting head, held him gently.

He really cares…

Unaware of their relationship, the maid watched the picturesque scene, then slowly closed the door. With a heavy thud, only the two remained in the vast bedroom.

🐑

Sleep was sweet. It felt like sinking into hellish pleasure, able to sleep forever. Yang Euijoo, wrapped in soft blankets, floundered in the deep sea of slumber. He hadn’t slept properly in ages. Half-conscious from pain or waking in fear and anxiety, placed in a room with sunlight and breeze, he slept like someone awake for three days. Everything around him was soft.

The hand holding his thin arm, stroking his knee, and caressing the burn-scarred inner thigh was soft. Wait, a hand…? Yang Euijoo was mistaken. Cheon Yeomyung always wore gloves during sex, so the one touching him wasn’t him. No, only Cheon Yeomyung would touch him like this, so it must be a dream. Feeling sweet saliva pool in his mouth, Yang Euijoo sank back into sleep.

The sensation of falling was like a drunk sailor slipping over the ship’s railing. A horn seemed to tear the silence.

“Hm.”

Cheon Yeomyung watched Yang Euijoo, who briefly stirred before falling back into sleep with incoherent sounds. He’d ordered sedatives mixed into the medicine, perhaps too much. Dropping his jacket to the floor, Cheon Yeomyung unbuttoned his shirt and looked at Yang Euijoo.

That morning, he recalled Yang Euijoo’s face, mixed with contempt and disgust, avoiding his plate. Yet Yang Euijoo desperately hid it. Cheon Yeomyung pretended not to see the anger. Their relationship was fake to begin with. Only Yang Euijoo’s location had shifted from basement to aboveground; neither Cheon Yeomyung’s anger nor Yang Euijoo’s contempt had vanished.

Human relationships were all like that. Cheon Yeomyung thought of his first lover at twenty, her name forgotten. She was older, a subordinate and lover of his father, taken during the organization’s consolidation. She wore a tight cheongsam well, typical of his father’s taste. In a way, Cheon Yeomyung “inherited” her. She later betrayed him and met a bad end.

Inheriting a ruined organization and a woman, Cheon Yeomyung found his life laughable as he spread Yang Euijoo’s legs. The soft clothing was easy to remove.

If Yang Euijoo were completely bare, it would’ve been less hassle, but Cheon Yeomyung preferred the wrapped. He loved undressing someone layered in complex clothing, like disarming them. Wasn’t that natural for a man?

Cheon Yeomyung slid off Yang Euijoo’s elastic-waisted pajama pants, letting them fall below the bed. Unlike the basement, the bedroom’s bright light was perfect for slowly inspecting Yang Euijoo’s body. His thighs bore patchy burn scars. The cigarette-burned skin wasn’t pleasant, but some might see it as marketable.

A hastily struck match broke and rolled on the floor. Cheon Yeomyung, biting a cigarette, looked at the sleeping Yang Euijoo.

“Euijoo-ya.”

The slightly parted lips exhaled steady breaths without reply. Well, Yang Euijoo didn’t need to be awake. Having finished his tasks, Cheon Yeomyung had Rose Rock’s permission to rest. He planned to enjoy the half-day break fully. Exhaling cigarette smoke leisurely, he saw Yang Euijoo, shadowed but eyes closed.

“Time to wake up.”

Pretending to wake him gently, Cheon Yeomyung reached out, stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray after a few puffs. Leaving a burn mark on the blanket would earn Rose Rock’s nagging, so he planned to behave today.

And Yang Euijoo, asleep under the influence of sedatives and sleeping pills, would fuel his excitement. Cheon Yeomyung poured a generous amount of lube onto his hand. Even his own bare fingers, rarely seen without gloves, glistened slickly with the cold gel.

In contrast to Yang Euijoo’s tattered, bandaged fingers, Cheon Yeomyung’s beautiful fingertips, manicured to perfection, reached out to probe the tightly closed entrance. Despite the cold gel touching his skin, Yang Euijoo didn’t even grimace.

Relying on the slick lube, Cheon Yeomyung slid a finger inside. The sensation of bare skin was unfamiliar. Yang Euijoo seemed to feel something similar, his expression subtle. It was as if his soul was slipping through his parted lips. After a moment’s hesitation, Cheon Yeomyung leaned down and kissed Yang Euijoo. The soft, wet interior of his mouth offered no resistance. It felt different from a forced kiss or one given to a body too weak to resist.

Relishing the rare peace, Cheon Yeomyung moved his fingers as if exploring a sleeping body. Unlike usual, his fingers delicately probed the tight inner walls, stretching every corner. Whether it was the harsh treatment in the basement or Yang Euijoo’s natural body, the walls soon relaxed. Cheon Yeomyung spread the entrance tightly and slipped another finger inside. The walls, gripping three fingers, were hot and soft. He pushed harder, spreading the entrance further, and poured more lube inside.

The lube smelled of cheap perfume, but he didn’t care. Cheap floral scents suited it better anyway. Cheon Yeomyung scraped the dripping lube with his fingers, then positioned himself between Yang Euijoo’s legs.

His wet hand grabbed Yang Euijoo’s knees, lifting them. Unaware of his predicament, Yang Euijoo frowned slightly, as if the position was uncomfortable.

“Mmm…”

Hearing a childlike whimper, Cheon Yeomyung pressed his firmly erect member against the entrance and slowly pushed in. The relaxed interior accepted him more easily than in the basement. Yang Euijoo groaned, rubbing his cheek against the pillow. The sudden discomfort in his stomach seemed to make the position uneasy, his hands weakly reaching toward the insertion, flailing. Cheon Yeomyung lowered one leg, grabbed the limp hand, and interlaced their fingers. Yang Euijoo’s thin fingers wove between his thicker ones. He’d never imagine the hand he held was Cheon Yeomyung’s.

The Cheon Yeomyung he knew had hands tightly wrapped in leather gloves, an utterly foreign sensation. Well, it wasn’t much different now. Unlike the half-naked Yang Euijoo, Cheon Yeomyung, with only his pants unbuckled, smirked and pulled Yang Euijoo’s hand closer. The scars on his hand and wrist were a mess. The doctor had warned to apply medicine often to prevent infection, advice he should’ve heeded. There were more wounds than expected. He shouldn’t cause more damage here. Moderate scars added market value, but excessive ones were bad for aesthetics and maintenance.

Treating a person like a display sculpture, Cheon Yeomyung kissed Yang Euijoo’s rough hand, then spread his limp legs wider, completing the insertion.

The sleeping Yang Euijoo let out pained moans with each deeper thrust. Groaning and shaking his head as if in a nightmare, Cheon Yeomyung traced the stretched entrance with his fingertips. The soft, wet entrance, red from friction, felt unfamiliarly pleasant. Scratching lightly with his nails, he thrust his hips upward. The remaining half of his member plunged in with a wet sound.

“Ah!”

A sharp scream echoed within the canopied bed. Cheon Yeomyung, savoring the twitching inner walls, looked at Yang Euijoo. His eyes remained tightly shut. Maybe there was no need to reduce the sedatives. Shamelessly, Cheon Yeomyung sighed at the hot, gripping sensation around his member. It felt like he could finish just like this.

“Ha, fuck…”

He could get aroused even with a sleeping partner, Cheon Yeomyung thought, licking his lips slowly. With plenty of time, the man committing vulgar acts in broad daylight felt no guilt. Instead, with a lascivious air fit for corrupting saints, he pounded the tightly closed inner entrance. The sound of forceful thrusts, like punching, echoed. Yang Euijoo’s lower abdomen bulged and receded repeatedly.

Clenching his teeth, Cheon Yeomyung gripped Yang Euijoo’s thighs and pushed harder. Normally, Yang Euijoo would’ve wailed and resisted, but an unconscious partner was pliable. After hammering the blocked area, Yang Euijoo’s mouth opened wide. His rigid body convulsed loudly. With a silent release, Cheon Yeomyung’s member was buried to the root inside the narrow passage.

“Fuck…”

Cheon Yeomyung muttered a crude curse that would’ve earned Rose Rock’s scolding. Beyond the canopy, their lascivious shadows flickered.

The flushed entrance pulsed slowly. Cheon Yeomyung spread the dripping entrance. The bare touch was still unfamiliar. As if consenting, Yang Euijoo twitched and groaned with each rub and probe of Cheon Yeomyung’s fingers. Spreading the gripping interior like scissors, the mix of semen and lube made it react ecstatically with every touch.

If he reacted this way to fingers, hating the member was odd. Cheon Yeomyung, endlessly probing the slick interior, considered drugging Yang Euijoo every time, given his low tolerance. Greedily pushing his hand in, stirring the swollen interior, Yang Euijoo’s hips shook, emitting short screams.

His lover, so adept at acting refined, only grumbled about pain when penetrated. Maybe he should always be asleep. Cheon Yeomyung flipped the limp body, caressing Yang Euijoo’s leaking member.

The closed eyelids trembled as if about to open, but the drooling lips and lengthening breaths showed Yang Euijoo was trapped in sleep.

Such docility didn’t seem like Yang Euijoo. Swallowing his saliva, Cheon Yeomyung pressed his wet tip against the pulsing entrance, rubbing slowly. The entrance twitched, sucking him in. With a vulgar curse, he thrust to the root without hesitation. The once-opened barrier yielded easily the second time. Yang Euijoo’s sobs came from his turned mouth. Cheon Yeomyung smirked faintly, seeing clear fluid drip from Yang Euijoo’s half-erect member, staining the sheets.

The wet sounds filled the canopied bed again. Cheon Yeomyung thrust into places Yang Euijoo would’ve begged to avoid if conscious. Each collision of wet skin made Yang Euijoo’s legs, face buried in the sheets, jerk upward. Licking his lips, Cheon Yeomyung pulled his hips closer. His hand slid up, catching a rigid nipple. In a proper position, he’d have pampered it, but no rush. He’d take it slow.

His neatly trimmed nails twisted and pinched the soft nipple as his member relentlessly moved in and out of the loosened walls. Yang Euijoo, lower half raised like a dog, remained unconscious. The base, vulgar pleasure of defiling a sleeping person throbbed in Cheon Yeomyung’s head.

His erect member plunged to the depths, spilling semen inside. Unsatisfied, Cheon Yeomyung rubbed it in further, enjoying the afterglow. Each sweep over the swollen area made Yang Euijoo’s unconscious member leak more, soaking the soft sheets.

Without hesitation, Cheon Yeomyung moved for a third release, thrusting until the body melted in pleasure. Yang Euijoo shook like a body made for it. Cheon Yeomyung wanted a pipe again, despite Yang Euijoo’s hatred for it.

“Mmm…”

Waking belatedly, Yang Euijoo felt stifled and writhed. A dull pain, like his insides were tearing, echoed through his lower half. The familiar aftereffect of sex was unmistakable. Could there be a worse ordeal? Shuddering, he sat up, nearly screaming but biting his tongue, the sharp pain stifling his cry.

Cheon Yeomyung slept beside him, eyes closed, blanket pulled to his chin, looking angelic. Yang Euijoo lifted the sheet covering his body. His thighs and crotch were a mess. Bastard. He couldn’t guess how much was done to him asleep. His legs, trembling like they’d been shocked, had no strength.

“What the hell…”

Moving slightly made semen flow out, the unclosed entrance gaping grotesquely. To not wake through this? Suspecting he’d lost consciousness, Yang Euijoo clutched his bloated abdomen. The man hadn’t used a condom.

White-hot anger exploded. Yang Euijoo flung the sheet and turned to Cheon Yeomyung. The sleeping man, unaware of his sins, breathed evenly, his saintly face shaded by the canopy. Yang Euijoo inhaled hate-filled breaths. Weak but unbroken.

His curled, unstraightened hand slowly reached for the sleeping man’s face, lashes long and curved. Beneath the gently sloped eyelids, a morning flush colored his cheeks, sharper from weight loss. The neck, pumping oxygen endlessly…

It looked fragile enough to snap with little force. Could he do it? Entranced, Yang Euijoo extended both hands. His fingertips touched the soft neck, feeling a pulse.

“Want to strangle me?”

The man, now awake, stared at Yang Euijoo. Smooth black leather brushed Yang Euijoo’s rough hand. A fleeting illusion of seeing something below hit him. He shook off Cheon Yeomyung’s hand as if escaping filth.

“Even if offered, you’d refuse.”

Cheon Yeomyung spoke as if his life was worth a mere bed-warming, shifting slightly. Still sleepy, he rummaged under the pillow, pulling out the red hardcover Yang Euijoo recognized. Burying his cheek in the pillow, marked by sleep, he flipped through it and showed Yang Euijoo.

“Was this written on purpose?”

The pages were scribbled with pencil marks—sailor symbols and curses, mostly aimed at Cheon Yeomyung. Yang Euijoo looked at his messy, childish writing compared to the printed text, nodding shamelessly.

“Yeah.”

“Hm.”

Cheon Yeomyung, sleepy-eyed, flipped through more.

“I know most back-alley curses, but this is new. A guy to be stuffed with pig semen for sausage… Is that really used?”

Did he write that? Yang Euijoo, tugging his tangled hair, answered.

“It’s used.”

“Heard it?”

“I’ve used it.”

Would he hit him? Anticipating trouble, Yang Euijoo swallowed. Cheon Yeomyung’s yellow eyes glanced at him, then pushed the book toward him with a big yawn. Learning even his distorted face was handsome was useless. Yang Euijoo frowned at the book on his semen-stained thighs.

“Try not to use those words. Some would take it literally, wanting to fill intestines with semen. My line of work attracts torturers and killers.”

Was it a warning or advice? Cheon Yeomyung closed his eyes slowly after the unsettling words. Yang Euijoo dropped the book, retorting.

“You’re the killer and torturer.”

“No way.”

A strange, satisfied smile flickered on his half-buried face. Then Cheon Yeomyung said nonsense.

“I don’t like killing.”

Outrageous, coming from a man who seemed the pettiest. Yang Euijoo scoffed.

“You killed Li Su.”

“…What.”

Mumbling sleepily, Cheon Yeomyung spoke roughly.

“Technically, you killed her, not me.”

That was his excuse. Then he curled up, seemingly to sleep again. Really sleeping? Yang Euijoo reached for his shoulder but hesitated.

“What.”

Face buried in the pillow, Cheon Yeomyung mumbled, voice dripping with sleep.

“Feel like everything’s changed?”

“…”

“Think of it as a break.”

Drawing a line, the man fell into a deep sleep. Yang Euijoo lost the will to strangle or bludgeon him. Nor did he have the will to read the book. Like dried bodily fluids, Yang Euijoo sighed worthlessly.

Cheon Yeomyung slept past lunch without apologizing for touching him. Yang Euijoo felt urges to strangle or stab him but couldn’t. He lacked the strength or a suitable knife.

Food was prepared later. Yang Euijoo, smirking at a wooden butter knife, ate a nauseating meal with a hated man behind him and a vengeful goddess glaring ahead. Two maids tidied the room—the young, talkative one from yesterday and a silent, familiar one. They moved carefully, aware of Cheon Yeomyung’s sleep. The young maid checked if Yang Euijoo finished eating and prepared bathwater.

Behind a large tapestry was a tunnel-like space with a door leading to a bathroom. The elegant bathroom, floored with ebony and blue natural stone tiles, was filled with a familiar scent.

The innermost bathtub, hidden by a curtain, was barely noticeable unless opened. Seeing the steaming tub, Yang Euijoo froze instinctively. The maid, unaware, half-lifted the curtain to guide him.

“Use it comfortably. Feel free to use any supplies. After bathing, wear the robe and put your clothes in the basket; we’ll clear them later.”

“…Okay.”

Staring at the steaming tub, Yang Euijoo grimaced. The sensation of semen trickling out made him curse. He couldn’t tell the maid, urging him to eat warm food, that he wanted to wash. Eating forcibly, he felt like stacking stones of discomfort.

“I’ll leave now. Ring the bell if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

After the maid left, Yang Euijoo stripped off his soiled clothes, shoving his pants into the basket. Cursing himself as an idiot for not waking, he roughly probed the swollen entrance, scraping out semen without shame. His exhausted face, after roughly cleaning, looked at the tub.

The tub had the same blue tiles as a pool. Blue seemed the man’s taste. The bathroom, with deep-sea blue tiles and sandstone hues, was spacious. He didn’t want to enter. It felt like someone would appear and press his head down. Trying not to imagine cold or scalding water, Yang Euijoo dipped his toes in. The perfectly warm water rippled, and he bolted.

“Ugh…!”

Clutching the toilet, Yang Euijoo vomited everything, tears streaming. Retching loudly, he emptied his stomach, panting. The bathroom was a relief. He flushed the toilet, standing shakily. Sweat-soaked hair clung to his face as he spat into the bowl.

The second flush didn’t work well. Irritated, Yang Euijoo pressed the lever repeatedly, then staggered to the sink. An unopened green toothbrush sat there. Probably for him. He scrubbed his swollen, bleeding gums and tongue harshly.

His reflection was unsightly. The maid’s neatly tied curtain was slightly disheveled from the commotion. Pulling the wet curtain aside, Yang Euijoo stepped back into the tub.

“It’s fine.”

His cracked voice urged himself on. Don’t be stupid. Threatening himself, he held his breath.

The hot, wet water sent shivers up his spine, but he didn’t rush to the toilet. Slowly submerging, he puffed out his chest. His fingers, gripping the tub’s edge, showed bone contours. His anxious endurance was long.

Only after ensuring he could breathe safely did Yang Euijoo relax his grip. Rubbing his goosebumped skin, he sighed. Surely he wouldn’t vomit every bath. Alone, it was fine, but he didn’t want Cheon Yeomyung to see him retch. Unable to dip his face in, he soaked, staring at the ceiling. The secretive tub wasn’t cozy. Trembling with unknown fear, he barely submerged halfway, glancing aside.

A window by the tub showed lush greenery and, further, the blue sea. Hong Kong had the sea nearby.

Recalling Hong Kong’s geography, Yang Euijoo twisted his wet, tangled hair, snapping strands. What’s shampoo? Staring at the curly-lettered bottles, he gave up distinguishing them and washed his hair with soap. It had a peculiar scent—deep, damp, like wood or burning. It reminded him of a man, likely Cheon Yeomyung’s taste, whose colognes smelled of ash, smoke, and wet wood. Not Yang Euijoo’s preference. He preferred cheap soap, rinsing the foam. Thinking he’d washed enough, a tapestry was flung open, and someone burst in.

Cold air rushed into the steam-warmed bathroom. Cheon Yeomyung strode in, dressed in a shirt and pants, eyeing the wet tiled floor, then scanning Yang Euijoo, just out of the tub.

The impassive man reached out. That’s it. Memories of torture flooded Yang Euijoo’s mind as Cheon Yeomyung pushed him back into the tub. Expecting to be submerged in hot water, he inhaled, but no force pressed his head. He saw his distorted face in the rippling water.

“Wash again.”

The man’s bored voice startled him. Yang Euijoo looked up sharply.

“What?”

He genuinely thought he’d misheard. But the man, still indifferent, spoke without looking, standing at the sink, his face sleepy.

“Wash again while I’m asking nicely.”

“Nicely?”

Knowing it was childish, Yang Euijoo couldn’t help retorting.

“You think this is asking nicely?”

“I didn’t shove your face in. That’s nice enough.”

Cheon Yeomyung glanced at him. The observant man noticed only the soap was wet among the items. Tossing his shirt buttons into the basket, he placed shampoo in front of Yang Euijoo.

“This is for hair. I hope I don’t need to explain shampoo to someone who lived like a beggar.”

“…”

“And this is for the body. Never learned the common word ‘body’?”

Sarcasm dripping, he signaled to wash quickly and grabbed the sink. His expression in the mirror was unreadable. Cheon Yeomyung dripped water into a shaving bowl, checked his watch, and sighed as if troubled, tossing it aside. Taking a brush from an expensive stand, he whipped up foam. Yang Euijoo, squeezing fragrant liquid—shampoo or body wash—watched him.

Cheon Yeomyung, scars visible on his bare torso, leaned against the sink, applying shaving cream. His classic method—making foam, using a separate brush and razor—was unlike modern rich men. His refined, old-fashioned taste, like using matches, applied here too. Noticing Yang Euijoo’s gaze, he chuckled.

“What, planning to slit my wrist?”

His thinking was vile. Yang Euijoo, rubbing foam on his body and hair, corrected him.

“I’d rather slit you.”

“Better. I like… ouch.”

Mid-compliment, Cheon Yeomyung flinched. Yang Euijoo looked too. Frowning, he checked his jaw.

“First time someone’s talked while I shave.”

Explaining unprompted, Cheon Yeomyung wiped foam, revealing a thin red cut. He sighed, mildly annoyed. Yang Euijoo, feeling guilty, splashed water on himself. Finishing his old-fashioned shave, Cheon Yeomyung, with a faint scar on his jaw, approached and grabbed the showerhead.

Unlike Yang Euijoo’s slow movements, Cheon Yeomyung washed quickly, then pulled the lingering Yang Euijoo out of the tub.

“Get out.”