ADRIEN’S POV

The heavy glass doors of the pavilion slam shut behind us, cutting off the sharp, hysterical wailing of Chloe and the sickeningly wet sounds of Leon vomiting into his own hands.

But the silence of the corridor doesn’t bring any relief. It just makes the sound of my own shallow breathing louder, echoing inside my skull like a ticking time bomb.

I’m fucked.

Orion’s grip on my wrist is a band of solid iron. He doesn’t drag me, not exactly, but his stride is so long and so effortlessly heavy, that I have to practically stumble to keep up with him.

My feet feel like lead.

The polished floors stretch out ahead of us— a long, sterile white tunnel that feels less like a hospital wing and more like the inside of a meat locker.

He’s dead. Peter is dead.

The words repeat on an endless loop in my mind, timed perfectly to the rhythmic thudding of Orion’s boots against the floor.

A man twice my size, a genuine elite who married into a massive shipping fortune, a guy who went to high school with us and had the entire world handed to him on a silver platter—snapped like a dry winter branch.

Just like that.

No hesitation. No warning. Orion didn’t even blink. He didn’t look angry. He just lifted him up by the throat and erased him from existence as if he were nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing too close to his face.

And now, those same hands are wrapped around my wrist. I can feel the bruising heat of his palm through my skin and the rough calluses of his hand against my flesh.

It’s a terrifyingly physical reminder of the sheer, unadulterated strength coiled inside his frame.

I’m dead.

My heart is doing a violent, erratic dance against my ribs, slamming so hard I’m convinced it’s going to fracture my ribs.

The panic isn’t just a feeling anymore, it’s a physical thing— a thick, greasy sludge sliding down the back of my throat and cutting off my air supply.

My lungs expand, but nothing enters. I’m suffocating. I’m actively suffocating in the middle of a brightly lit, pristine hospital corridor while the devil himself guides me by the arm.

What if this is it? What if this is where he takes me to finish it?

The thought hits me with the force of a freight train, sending a violent shudder straight down my spine. My knees buckle slightly, a pathetic, involuntary jerk, but Orion’s grip instantly tightens, hoisting me back up without a single break in his stride.

He doesn’t even look back at me. He just keeps walking, a towering, 6’4 shadow cutting through the sterile fluorescent light.

The name ’Masamune’ feels like a fresh coat of poison dripping into my veins. Peter’s bloodshot, terrified eyes flash in my memory, his voice screaming that the elite will burn until the rat acknowledges the truth.

They want me.

They intentionally targeted the estate, set the bombs, and blew a billionaire’s wife among other elites, into literal dog food just to send a message to me.

Or... did they?

A cold, sickening realization begins to bloom in the darkest corners of my panicked mind, spreading like ink in clear water.

What if Masamune isn’t actually trying to get to me at all? What if this entire horrific theater—the fire, the bombs, the text messages, the public accusations—is a meticulously designed trap? A trap meant to push Orion over the edge. Or to do something just as sinister?

Thinking about it now, Masamune knows exactly what kind of monster Orion Vassilis is. They know he is a territorial, violently possessive predator who doesn’t tolerate anyone touching what he deems his.

He’s a bloody tyrant.

By pointing the finger directly at me, by openly declaring me as their target, they’re practically daring Orion to react. Are they trying to bait him? Are they trying to outrightly get Orion to murder me himself just to see what happens, or to force his hand into a war they’ve been craving?

Or worse... does Orion already know that?

My mind flashes back to Anna. Crazily kind Anna. My hairstylist. The woman who had been brutally executed by Masamune and left like a discarded doll. I haven’t even laid eyes on her corpse.

When it happened, I was paralyzed with grief and fear, expecting a brutal interrogation from Orion.

I expected him to tear me apart, to demand answers, to extract every single detail about why my person was being killed off by the syndicate he is interested in.

But he didn’t. He never questioned it. He never brought her up. He just let her death hang in the air like an unspoken piece of trivia, completely dismissing it as if it was nothing.

Why? Why would a man who controls an empire, a man who snapped the neck of a billionaire in broad daylight for merely raising his voice, completely ignore the targeted execution of someone I call my person?

The realization makes my blood run entirely cold, leaving me numb despite the oppressive heat radiating from Orion’s body.

He knows.

There is absolutely no way he doesn’t know. He’s not acting because he’s playing a completely different game. He’s letting the pieces fall exactly where he wants them to.

He’s watching the Masamune circle around us, watching them slaughter people left and right, and he’s just... amused. He’s treating this entire bloody nightmare like he’s a spectator and I’m the mouse being dangled over the snake pit.

"Orion..." The name slips past my lips before I can stop it, a pathetic whimper that barely carries over the hum of the building’s air conditioning.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even slow down. He just keeps walking, turning a sharp corner that leads away from the private medical suites and down into a wider, less restricted section of the hospital complex.

The signs on the wall change from ’Private Pavilion’ to ’Cafeteria and Services’.

A cafeteria?

I expect him to lead me to a private elevator, or a hidden exit where a fleet of black armored SUVs is waiting to take us away to some secluded fortress where he can lock me in a room and peel back my secrets and my skin layer by layer.

Instead, he pushes open a pair of heavy double doors, and the smell of stale coffee, fried food, and almost scentless disinfectant hits my senses.

The hospital cafeteria is completely dead at this hour. The rows of plastic tables and molded chairs sit empty under the harsh, bright lights.

A single, tired-looking worker stands behind a glass counter at the far end, wiping down a stainless-steel surface with a dirty rag. The atmosphere is stark and completely surreal given the fact that a fresh corpse is currently cooling on the floor just three levels above us.

Orion lets go of my wrist. The sudden release of pressure makes the blood rush back into my hand, a stinging, prickling sensation that makes my fingers twitch.

I take a step back instinctively, my back hitting the cold glass of a vending machine, my eyes darting frantically toward the exit doors we just came through.

"Sit," Orion says flatly.

His voice isn’t loud, but it possesses a heavy finality that sticks my feet to the floor. He points a long, elegant finger toward a small booth in the corner, completely isolated from the rest of the room.

Oh god. We’re alone.

I swallow hard, my throat feeling like sandpaper, and slowly march myself over to the booth. My legs are shaking so violently I’m amazed they haven’t given out completely.

I slide into the plastic bench, my hands clenching into tight fists on top of the table to keep them from trembling.

Orion doesn’t join me immediately. Instead, he walks over to the service counter. I watch him from across the empty room, his massive, imposing frame completely dwarfing the space.

He speaks to the worker in a low, murmuring tone. The worker nods quickly, his movements hurried and deferential, clearly picking up on the lethal aura radiating off the man in the tailored, soot-stained tuxedo trousers and bandages wrapped around his chest.

A few minutes later, Orion walks back to the table. In his hands, he carries a single, steaming ceramic bowl and a pair of dark wooden chopsticks.

He slides into the booth opposite me, his broad shoulders filling the space, effectively cutting off my view of the rest of the room. He places the bowl down directly in the center of the table.

It’s Japanese fried rice.

The scent of soy sauce, toasted sesame oil, and finely chopped green onions wafts up between us, the steam rising in lazy, swirling patterns under the harsh lights.

I stare at the dish, my stomach twisting into a tight, agonizing knot. The symbolism isn’t just clear, it’s a physical slap to the face.

A Japanese dish. Ordered immediately after a man screamed the name of a Japanese syndicate in our faces. Ordered right after a billionaire was murdered because of a warning from Masamune.

Orion doesn’t say a word. He picks up the chopsticks, his long, scarred fingers moving with a fluid grace, and begins to eat. He takes a small, precise portion of the rice, chews thoroughly, and swallows, his dark, completely unreadable gaze fixed entirely on my face.

He is eating a Japanese dish in front of me while the ghost of the Masamune hangs over my head.

It’s a silent, psychological execution.

He is showing me, without uttering a single syllable, exactly how little power the Masamune have over him. He is consuming their identity, devouring it casually in a drab hospital cafeteria while I sit across from him, vibrating with terror.

But as I watch the slow movement of his jaw, a darker, far more parasitic thought worms its way into my brain. It’s not just the Masamune he’s symbolizing. It’s me.

He wants to consume me, too.

He wants to completely swallow me whole, to digest my life and my secrets until there is absolutely nothing left of Adrien but a hollow shell that belongs entirely to Orion Vassilis.

He is a predator, and I am the meal he is taking his sweet, agonizing time to finish. He doesn’t need to rush. He knows I can’t run. He knows there is nowhere on this entire miserable planet where his shadow won’t reach me.

Won’t it be better to just die now...?