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The black van cut through the velvet darkness of Bangkok, a silent predator under the neon glow. Inside, however, the atmosphere was anything but predatory.
From the driver’s seat, Mok’s eyes drifted to the rearview mirror, and a slow, unconscious smile touched his lips. In the back, Khun Theerakit—heir to the Lee family empire, a man whose name could silence a room—was currently curled against his boyfriend Peachayarat like a clingy, designer-clad koala.
“Peach,” Thee murmured, his voice a low rumble edged with a whine. He nuzzled against Peach’s neck. “Five more minutes. Drive around the block again, Mok.”
Peach sighed, all sharp angles and feigned irritation, but the fondness in his eyes gave him away. “You’re impossible. We’re here. Let go.”
“It’s a very nice shower gel,” Thee argued, tightening his hold. “It deserves to be clung to.”
Mok’s smile deepened. He had seen Khun Thee in many states—coldly calculating, terrifyingly wrathful, impeccably polite—but this soft, openly adoring version was a revelation. The love in the air was almost tangible, a warmth that felt more impenetrable than any armor. He’s never been this happy, Mok thought, his chest swelling with a quiet, joyful ache.
The van rolled to a stop in front of Peach’s minimalist home. The bubble had to burst.
“Out,” Peach said, prying Thee’s arms loose with gentle firmness.
Thee slid out but caught Peach’s hand, bringing it to his lips. “Good night, my Peach,” he whispered, before his expression melted into a pout. “I wanna sleep here.”
Peach cupped his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone. “Next time.”
“You say that every time.”
“This time,” Peach murmured, his voice tender and low, “I give you permission to move some of your necessary stuff here.”
The effect was instantaneous. Thee’s eyes—clouded with petulance moments before—lit up like twin supernovas. Pure, unadulterated joy transformed his face, stripping away years of hardened composure. Mok, leaning against the van, couldn’t suppress a soft chuckle.
“Now that you’ve said that, Khun Peach,” Mok interjected lightly, “please prepare to have your house renovated. We’re talking a new security wing, a walk-in closet the size of a penthouse… perhaps even a moat.”
Thee shot him a warning look, though it was softened by lingering happiness. All he mustered was an amused “Ahem.” Peach just smiled, shaking his head.
“Get inside,” Thee said, his voice warm. “I’ll watch.”
Peach hesitated, then turned toward the door. At the threshold, he glanced back. Thee stood by the van, a tall silhouette against the night, one hand raised in a slow wave. Mok waited beside the open car door—a silent, eternal sentinel.
“Call me,” Peach called out, the command laced with worry, “when you get home.”
Thee nodded—a promise—before slipping into the plush interior. Mok closed the door with a solid thunk, sealing the quiet night around them.
The drive back was peaceful. Thee lounged in the back, eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips as he replayed Peach’s words. Mok focused on the road, lulled by the familiar route.
Then his phone rang, shattering the calm.
The caller ID made him blink: Khun Peach.
“Hello, Khun Peach,” Mok answered, professionalism layering his tone.
In the backseat, Thee’s eyes snapped open. He sat up, instantly alert. Peach never called Mok directly. Not unless…
“Khun Mok, Khun Thee forgot his phone at my house. Can you—”
A sound like the world splitting open exploded through the speaker. Not a firecracker, not a backfire—a deafening, brutal BANG of a high-caliber gunshot, followed by the shriek of tearing metal and shattering glass.
“Khun Mok?!” Peach’s voice was a distant, terrified scream before the line dissolved into chaos—shouts, screeching tires, panic.
Then silence.
The call dropped.
Mok didn’t hesitate. His foot slammed the accelerator. “Get down, Khun Thee! Now!” he barked, his voice a whip-crack of authority.
Thee dropped low just as a hail of bullets peppered the rear of the van. Thwack-thwack-thwack! The reinforced windows spider-webbed. The noise was deafening inside the metal box.
“Backup! We are under fire!” Mok shouted into his comms, his voice steady even as he swerved violently. His mind, treacherously calm, flashed back to nights off-duty in Thee’s house—Thee holding a glass of wine, the city lights painting him in gold. A rare, unguarded moment between friends.
“You know,” Mok had said, swirling his own glass with a faint, melancholic smile, “in the end, I’ll have to take the bullets for my friend.”
Another volley. A bullet pierced the rear door and thudded into the partition. They were being herded, cornered. Mok spotted a narrow alley ahead—a risk, but their only chance.
“Hold on!” He wrenched the wheel. The van careened into the alley, scraping the walls with a metallic scream. The pursuing car followed, sleek and relentless.
Then Mok saw it: the muzzle flash from the passenger-side window, aimed not at the tires or the engine, but directly at the backseat where Thee was huddled.
There was no time to think. Only instinct.
He threw himself sideways, shielding Thee’s body with his own just as the window beside them exploded inward.
A searing, white-hot pain erupted in Mok’s side. He gasped, his grip on the wheel faltering. The metallic scent of his own blood filled the cabin.
“Mok!” Thee’s voice was raw, frantic.
“I’m fine!” Mok gritted out, one hand pressed to his side, the other guiding the van into a skid that blocked the alley. “Stay down! Don’t look!”
He returned fire through the shattered window, movements precise even as fire spread through his torso. Each breath was a knife. Each heartbeat pushed more of his life out onto the leather seats.
The backup will come. Thee will be safe. That’s all that matters.
The world began to tunnel. Sounds blurred—shouting, engines roaring, more gunfire. He felt strong hands—Thee’s hands—pulling him back, applying frantic pressure to the wound. Thee’s face, pale and fierce, swam above him.
“Stay with me! That’s an order!”
Mok focused on him, managing a weak, bloody smile. “See?” he whispered, each word a labor. “Told you… I’d take… the bullets.”
“You idiot!” Thee snarled, pressing harder. “Don’t you dare leave me!”
But strength was leaching away, carried off on a tide of red. The backup team had arrived—shouts, the roar of engines, the blessed cessation of gunfire. Khun Thee was safe.
The job was done. The promise kept.
“Thee…” Mok’s voice faded to a breath.
Darkness lapped at the edges of his vision. As chaos settled into controlled urgency around them, Mok allowed his eyes to close.
----
At Peach’s house, the world had narrowed to the echo of that gunshot through the phone. He redialed again and again. No answer. No answer. No answer.
Terror coiled sharp and cold in his gut. Thee. Mok. He knew their world. He knew what silence after a sound like that meant.
Helplessness threatened to drown him. He had no contacts in their shadowy realm, no way to summon the kind of help they might need. Then his eyes fell on the sleek, forgotten phone on the coffee table. Khun Thee’s phone.
He snatched it up. The lock screen glowed, demanding a passcode—a six-digit wall between him and any hope. On a trembling whim, driven by desperate, foolish love, he typed in his own birthday.
The screen unlocked immediately.
Peach’s breath hitched. For a second, he just stared, overwhelmed by the trust that simple act implied. P’Kian…
He scrolled frantically. He needed someone with power, someone who could move in that world. His thumb hovered over a name: Rome.
Thee’s younger brother. The only other person he knew in their orbit.
“I’m sorry, P’Kian,” Peach whispered to the empty room, his voice trembling. “But I have to do this.”
He pressed call.
----
Half a world away, in a penthouse overlooking the Hong Kong skyline, Krisdanai Rome Lee was seeking a rare moment of peace. A heavy leather-bound volume lay open in his lap, the words a familiar, calming rhythm. The specific, shrill ringtone that shattered the quiet—the one reserved only for his older brother—felt like a physical blow to his chest.
His heart stuttered, then began a frantic, hammering rhythm. P’Kian never called. He sent terse, encrypted texts. A direct call meant a crisis. A call meant something had happened to Thee… or to Mok.
He snatched the phone from the nightstand, cold dread pooling in his gut. “P’Kian?”
The voice that answered was not his brother’s. It was young, frayed, vibrating with a terror so profound it sliced through the line. “Khun Rome… I think your brother and Khun Mok are in danger. I can’t contact anyone. Please... please help them.”
Peach. Thee’s Peach. The one who made his brother laugh. The one Mok had sworn to protect with his life.
Ice flooded Rome’s veins, but his voice, when he spoke, was a calm, steely command. “Breathe. Tell me what you heard.”
“A gunshot. On the phone. Then… nothing. I’ve called a hundred times. Nothing!”
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know! They were leaving my house, going back to thee—”
“Stay where you are. Lock the doors. They’ll be fine. I’ll handle it.” He ended the call before the cold fury and fear could crack his composure. He immediately dialed the head of the Thai security team, the line connecting with a single ring.
“Report. Now.”
The voice on the other end was tight, professional. "Young Master Thee is fine. The threat has been neutralized. However, Mok… Khun Mok was shot. They’re en route to the Hospital. The situation is critical.”
Mok was shot.
The book slid from Rome’s lap and thudded to the floor. The world narrowed to a single, burning point of white-hot rage and soul-crushing fear. His Mok. Shot.
He was moving before the call disconnected, a force of nature in motion. He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, his movements precise, lethal.
“Young Master Krit! It’s past midnight! Where are you—” a butler began, hurrying after him down the marbled hallway.
Rome didn’t answer. He didn’t even glance back. His entire being was focused on one objective: Get to Mok.
He barked orders into his phone, his voice leaving no room for argument. “The jet. Now. Bangkok. Clear air traffic. I want wheels up in twenty minutes.” He sent a single, terse text to the number that had just called him: On my way. Top of Arseni Hospital. Stay with P’Kian.
He boarded the private jet and threw his phone onto the empty seat beside him. The flight was an eternity in a silent, gilded hell. The hum of the engines was a taunt. Every second that ticked by was a second Mok was lying hurt, bleeding, because Rome hadn’t been there. Visions assaulted him: Mok’s quiet smile, his steady hands, the unshakable loyalty in his eyes… replaced by images of him pale and still, blood stark against his skin.
A storm of possessive, violent fury brewed in Rome’s chest. Who? Who dared to touch what is mine? Who dared to hurt what my brother holds dear? The emotion was so vast it threatened to consume him.
If something has happened to my Mok, he vowed, staring out at the black expanse of ocean below, I will tear their world apart. Brick by brick. Life by life. And I will burn what remains.
----
The Lee family’s private hospital, Arseni Memorial, was a fortress of sterile efficiency. The jet touched down on the helipad with a shudder, and Rome was out before the rotors had fully stilled, his coat billowing behind him like a shadow.
He stormed through the secured corridors, a prince of darkness in a kingdom of white. He found them in the private waiting area outside the surgical suites—a heartbreaking tableau.
Thee was seated in a rigid chair, still wearing the same clothes. His shirt, his hands, were darkened with dried blood that was unmistakably not his own. He was clinging to Peach’s hand as if it were the only solid thing in a crumbling universe. Peach sat beside him, an arm wrapped tightly around Thee’s shoulders, holding him close, his own face pale and drawn.
“P’Kian. P’Peach.” Rome’s voice was hoarse, stripped raw by the flight and the fear. “Mok… is he okay?”
Two heads snapped up. Thee’s eyes, usually so sharp and controlled, were wide with shock and exhaustion. “Rome?” he breathed, as if seeing a ghost. “What are you doing here? How did you—”
“I did,” Peach interrupted softly, his voice small. “I called him. I was desperate. I’m sorry.”
Thee sighed, the fight leaving him in a rush. He leaned harder into Peach’s side. “It’s… it’s okay.” He looked back at his brother, and for a moment, the formidable Theerakit Kian Lee was just an older brother trying to be strong. “He’s still in surgery. They’re doing an arthroscopic extraction. It was… it was deep. But he’s strong. He’ll be fine.” The last sentence was spoken to the air, a fragile prayer.
Rome stood frozen, his usual commanding presence reduced to that of a scared young man. His legs refused to move. Thee and Peach rose together, a united front, and gently guided him to a chair. They flanked him, a silent offer of shared strength he felt too shattered to accept.
Time lost all meaning. It was measured only in the agonizing tick of the clock on the wall.
Finally, the surgeon emerged, still in his scrubs. Rome was on his feet in an instant.
“The bullet has been removed. He lost a significant volume of blood and required transfusion, but he is stable. The next 24 hours are crucial, but his vitals are strong. He will be unconscious for some time as his body recovers.”
The relief was so potent it was dizzying. Rome had to brace a hand against the wall. Permission was granted for a brief visit.
He entered the ICU alone. The sight that greeted him stole the breath from his lungs.
Mok lay in the center of the large bed, dwarfed by machines and tubes. Bandages swathed his torso. An oxygen cannula rested under his nose. A livid scratch marred the perfect plane of his cheek. He was so still. So pale. This was not his indomitable Mok, his anchor, his quiet storm. This was a shattered reflection.
Rome approached as one would a holy relic. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he traced the scratch on Mok’s cheek with the lightest touch.
A wave of nausea, of pure, self-loathing fury, washed over him. I should have been there. I should have been the shield. What is my power for if I cannot protect the one person who is my entire heart? I promised him. I promised myself.
He bent, pressing his lips to Mok’s cool, unresponsive knuckles. “I’m here,” he whispered, the words a broken vow. “I’m so sorry, my love. I’m here now.”
He sensed a presence at the door. Looking up, he saw his brother standing in the doorway, Peach a silent silhouette behind him. The vulnerability on Rome’s face solidified into something harder, colder. He pressed one more kiss to Mok’s hand and straightened.
He walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Peach slipped inside to take the vigil, giving the brothers space.
In the sterile, bright hallway, Rome turned to Thee. The scared young man was gone. In his place stood the heir to the Lee family’s most ruthless legacy. His voice, when he spoke, was the calm before an avalanche, colder than the Arctic and sharper than a surgeon’s blade.
“P’Kian,” he said, the title a demand. “Who did this?”
Thee met his gaze, his own eyes hardening in response. The shared grief was now fuel. “I’m not certain yet. The tactics, the boldness… it points to the Shohei family.”
“The Yakuza?” Rome’s eyebrow lifted a fraction. A deadly curiosity. “Why would they move against you? Do they not understand that the Lee family can reduce their entire lineage to dust before breakfast?”
“I have no idea what prompted this,” Thee admitted, a flicker of guilt passing over his features. He looked down at his blood-stained hands. “I should have been more careful. I should have… I am sorry about Mok. This is my fault. I should've took my gun at least.”
“No.” The word was absolute, final. “Mok did his job. He made his choice. He fulfilled his promise.” Rome’s gaze drifted back to the closed door, and his eyes burned with a promise of pure annihilation. “But I will become the nightmare that lives in their shadows. I will be the reason their children whimper in the dark. From this moment on, the name Shohei will be a curse, and I will be the wrath that delivers it.”
Thee said nothing. He simply looked at his brother, saw the unholy fire in his eyes, and knew that the path was set. No force on earth could divert Rome now. He placed a heavy, understanding hand on Rome’s shoulder—a gesture of solidarity, of transferred authority.
Then, Thee turned and walked back into Mok’s room. He went to Peach, who was carefully smoothing the sheets, and wrapped his arms around him from behind, burying his face in the crook of his neck. He sought, and finally found, a sliver of solace in the scent of his love—a tiny bastion of peace amidst the beeping machines and the chilling quiet of revenge being born in the hallway outside.
----
For two days, Rome existed in a state of suspended, silent mania. He was a ghost in the ICU, a wraith tethered to the space between Mok’s bed and the cold window overlooking a city that had dared to harm what was his. He didn’t sleep. He cat-napped in fits, his head jerking up from where it rested on the mattress beside Mok’s hip, his hand always, always wrapped around Mok’s limp fingers. If he wasn’t clinging to Mok as if his own life force could seep through their skin and jumpstart Mok’s heart, he was working.
A sleek laptop glowed in the dim room, its light casting hellish shadows on his hollowed face. His fingers flew across the keys, a relentless tap-tap-tap that was the only sound besides the beeping monitor. He was digging, tearing through digital layers of Bangkok’s underworld with the single-minded fury of a mad archaeologist uncovering a hated tomb.
Thee and Peach moved around him, a team of worried caretakers for a feral, grieving animal. They brought trays of food—steaming khao tom, fresh fruit cut into delicate pieces, sandwiches.
“Rome, eat,” Thee would command, his own voice ragged.
Rome would glance at the tray, his eyes glassy, and push it away with a single finger, never breaking his typing rhythm. He consumed only bitter black coffee and the raw data of his revenge.
“He needs to sleep, P’Kian,” Peach whispered on the second night, watching as Rome traced the line of Mok’s eyebrow with a trembling, feather-light touch.
“He won’t,” Thee murmured back, his arm tight around Peach’s waist. “Not until he finds the source of the poison. And then… God help them.”
The confirmation came just before dawn on the third day. A financial trail, a whisper from a turned insider, a ballistic match from the recovered slugs. It all coalesced into a single name, a face on the screen: Touch Shohei, Tatsuya. The disgraced Yakuza heir, playing gangster with his boutique agency, thinking his new-world flair made him untouchable. He’d ordered the hit on Thee as a power play, a statement to his old family. A pathetic gambit with catastrophic fallout.
Rome stared at the photograph. The smirk, the arrogant tilt of the head. This man’s order had put Mok here. This man’s ambition had dared to spill Lee blood.
A strange, unsettling calm settled over Rome. The frantic energy condensed into a diamond-hard focus. He closed the laptop.
He stood and walked to Mok’s bedside. Mok was breathing on his own now, the deep, drugged sleep of healing. The pallor was still there, the fragility, but a faint flush of life was returning to his cheeks.
Rome bent down. He cradled Mok’s face in both hands, his thumbs stroking the hollows under his cheekbones. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Mok’s forehead—a long, tender, desperate kiss that held a universe of promises and apologies.
“I’ll come back,” Rome whispered against his skin, his voice raw with a love so vast it had curdled into something terrifying. “Before you wake up. I’ll be here. I just have to go… clean up a mess.”
He straightened, and the lover was gone. In his place stood something else entirely. His eyes, when he looked at Thee, who had just entered the room, were black pools of serene madness.
“I found him,” Rome said, his tone conversational. “I’m going out. Watch him for me.”
Thee wanted to stop him. He saw the abyss in his brother’s gaze. But he also saw the righteous fury, and he knew the debt that needed collecting. He simply gave a tight, grim nod. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
A ghost of that terrifying smile touched Rome’s lips. “Oh, P’Kian… I’m going to do so much worse.”
----
The warehouse on the abandoned docks was a cathedral of decay, smelling of salt, rust, and old fish. It was dark, cold, the only light a single, flickering halogen lamp that threw long, dancing shadows.
Under its pitiless glare, Touch Shohei Tatsuya knelt on the concrete, his hands bound tightly behind his back with zip-ties that cut into his wrists. His expensive shirt was torn, a bruise flowering across his cheekbone. A thick cloth was gagging him, soaked with his own saliva and fear. He trembled violently, his eyes darting around the vast, empty space, seeing monsters in every shadow.
Then, he heard it. The sound that froze the blood in his veins.
A whistle. A cheerful, tuneless little whistle, echoing in the cavernous space. It was entirely wrong. It was human, and therefore, infinitely more frightening than any growl.
Footsteps, crisp and unhurried, followed the sound.
A figure emerged from the darkness into the circle of light. Tall, impeccably dressed in a black coat that seemed to drink the light, moving with a predator’s loose-limbed grace. It was the man from the file, but the file had been a photograph. This was the living, breathing nightmare.
Rome stopped in front of Touch. He stopped whistling. The sudden silence was louder than any scream.
He looked down, his head tilting. There was no rage on his face. Only a profound, academic curiosity, laced with utter disgust, as if examining a particularly vile insect.
“So,” Rome said, his voice soft, almost pleasant. “You’re the one who hurt Theerakit Kian Lee.”
He reached down. His hand, clad in black leather, closed under Touch’s chin, fingers digging into the flesh of his jaw with brutal, bone-grinding strength. He forced Touch’s head up, making him meet his eyes. Touch screamed against the gag, a muffled, guttural sound of pure terror.
Rome held him there for a long moment, studying his face, memorizing the fear. Then he released him with a slight shove. With his other hand, he reached and yanked the sodden cloth from Touch’s mouth.
Touch gasped, coughing. “Who… who are you?!” he spluttered, his voice trembling.
Rome crouched down, bringing himself to eye level. His smile was a slit of white in the gloom. “The one who’s about to end your life.”
Touch’s bravado, fueled by panic, flared. “Why would you do that?!”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Rome asked, genuinely curious.
“He was in my way! It was just business!” Touch spat, a flicker of his old smirk trying to break through. “Why wouldn’t I remove an obstacle?”
Rome’s serene expression didn’t change. He simply drew his leg back and drove his boot, hard, into Touch’s stomach.
Thud. The air left Touch’s lungs in a whoosh.
Thud. He retched, doubling over as much as his bonds allowed.
Thud. A sickening crunch, a rib likely cracking.
Touch collapsed onto his side, wheezing, tears of pain and shock mingling on his face.
Rome stood over him. “Oh, why wouldn’t I?” he echoed Touch’s words, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. He nudged Touch’s head with the toe of his boot. “Listen, you pathetic worm. You didn’t just ‘move an obstacle.’ Your man didn’t just ‘do business.’” He crouched again, his voice intimately close. “Your man put a bullet in someone I love. Someone who is mine to protect.”
He grabbed a fistful of Touch’s hair, yanking his head up. “And I am not nice like my brother. I don’t do business. I do vengeance.” He leaned in closer, their noses almost touching. “You’ve heard my name… haven’t you?”
Recognition, stark and final, dawned in Touch’s pain-glazed eyes. The whispers. The stories from his own Yakuza uncles. The ghost of the Lee family. The younger son. Krisdanai Rome Lee.
A wet stain spread across Touch’s trousers.
“Ah,” Rome said, releasing his hair with a flick of disgust. “You have.” He stood up, brushing his hands together as if touching something filthy. “You’re lucky. I made a promise to my brother. A promise not to kill you.”
He began to pace a slow circle around the broken man. “Killing you would be a mercy. It would be an end. And you don’t deserve an end. You deserve a… modification.”
He nodded to Kinn, who stood silently in the shadows. Kinn stepped forward, a heavy, rubber-coated mallet in one hand, a slim, surgical case in the other.
“You see,” Rome continued, his tone turning clinical, “you tried to harm the Lee family. To do that, you need power. You need influence. You need your hands to pull triggers, your legs to run your empire, your tongue to give orders, your eyes to see your enemies.”
He stopped pacing and looked down at Touch, his expression one of chilling finality. “Consider this a recalibration. A lesson in consequence.”
He gave a slight nod.
What followed was not a frenzied beating. It was a cold, precise, surgical dismantling.
The mallet came down on Touch’s right kneecap with a wet, crunching pop. Touch’s scream tore through the warehouse. Rome watched, unmoved.
A specialist from the case stepped forward. With swift, efficient movements, he injected something into the tendons of Touch’s wrists. “A degenerative agent,” Rome explained calmly over the screams. “In six months, your hands will be little more than useless claws. Typing, holding a gun, signing a contract… all just painful memories.”
Another man approached with a small, precise tool. As Touch writhed, he applied it, delivering a controlled, searing charge to specific vocal cords. Not enough to render him mute, but enough to leave his voice a permanent, rasping ruin. The voice of a boss would become the whisper of a ghost.
Finally, Rome himself stepped forward. He held a small, sharp blade. He didn’t blind Touch. That was too poetic, too obvious. Instead, with the point of the blade, he carved a shallow, precise line—the Lee family character—into Touch’s shoulder. It was a brand, a billboard of his failure.
Touch lay in a shuddering heap, sobbing, broken in every way that mattered to a man like him.
Rome looked down at his work. The manic energy was gone, spent. He just looked tired, and deeply, profoundly satisfied.
“Take him to the border,” Rome instructed Kinn, his voice flat. “Dump him where his father’s people will find him. Send the Shohei patriarch a message: His son lives by my mercy. His family survives by my whim. The next move against what is mine will be their last. I will not be… restrained again.”
He didn’t look back at the weeping ruin on the floor. He turned and walked back into the darkness, the cheerful whistle starting up again as he left the warehouse, a stark, chilling counterpoint to the sounds of utter ruin he left behind.
He had a promise to keep.
----
The icy water did nothing to cleanse him. Rome scrubbed his hands under the scalding spray in the warehouse’s grimy sink, the soap lathering white over his knuckles, under his nails. He washed until his skin felt raw, but the phantom sensation—the crunch of bone under his boot, the resistance of flesh under the blade—clung to him like a second skin. The smell of rust and fear seemed woven into the fibres of his coat. He stripped it off, leaving it in a heap on the damp concrete, and pulled on a fresh, soft black sweater he’d had waiting in the car. A mask for the monster.
The drive back to the Arseni Hospital was a silent passage through a city beginning to glow with dawn. The manic energy that had sustained him was gone, leaving a cavernous, hollow exhaustion. But beneath the fatigue, a single, clear purpose remained: get back to him.
He slipped into the VIP wing, a ghost in the sterile halls. The guards stationed outside Mok’s door nodded silently, stepping aside. Thee was asleep in an armchair in the corner, Peach curled against him under a blanket. Rome’s eyes barely registered them. His entire world had already narrowed to the bed in the center of the room.
Mok lay as he had left him, but the morning light filtering through the blinds painted him in softer tones. The terrible pallor was receding, replaced by the faint, precious warmth of returning life. His chest rose and fell in a steady, deep rhythm that was the most beautiful symphony Rome had ever known.
Rome moved silently. He pulled the chair so close its legs scraped softly against the floor. He sat, the weight of the last 72 hours—the terror, the rage, the vicious, meticulous cruelty—suddenly settling on his shoulders like lead.
He reached out. His hand, the one that had just orchestrated a man’s ruination, trembled as it hovered over Mok’s face. He hesitated, as if his touch might now be tainted, might stain this purity. But the need was too great.
Gently, so gently it was almost an ache, he let his fingertips brush Mok’s cheek. He traced the line of his jaw, the arch of his brow, the curve of his lips, memorizing the reality of him, solid and alive under his touch. He combed his fingers through the soft dark hair at Mok’s temple.
Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against the side of the bed, his face turned towards Mok. The sterile hospital smell was now laced with the subtle, clean scent that was uniquely Mok’s. Rome closed his eyes, inhaling it as if it were oxygen.
“I miss you, Mok,” he whispered into the quiet space between them. His voice was a shattered thing, stripped of all its earlier icy command, raw with a vulnerability he showed to no one else. It was the confession of a man who had just walked through hell and found he could only breathe in the presence of one person.
He lifted his head, his eyes tracing every beloved feature. “The world is so loud without you,” he murmured, his thumb stroking Mok’s cheekbone. “And so… ugly. I made it uglier today. For you. Because of you.” A single, hot tear escaped, tracking a path down his own cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. “I need you to wake up. I need you to look at me. I need… you.”
He brought Mok’s hand to his lips, pressing a fervent, desperate kiss to the palm, then curled his own fingers around it, holding on as if it were the only anchor in a stormy sea. He sat there, vigil renewed, the ruthless mafia heir completely gone. In his place was just Rome—a lover, terrified, remorseful, and fiercely devoted, waiting in the silent dawn for his heart to wake up and call him home.
The exhaustion, a heavy black tide, finally pulled Rome under. His head, which had been resting beside Mok’s hip on the bed, slumped forward, his brow pressing against their joined hands. His breathing evened out into the deep, shallow rhythm of utter depletion.
In the quiet room, marked only by the soft beep of monitors and the distant hum of the hospital, Mok’s eyelids fluttered.
Awareness returned slowly, swimming up through layers of thick, syrupy darkness and dull, pervasive ache. First came sensation: the stiff sheets, the pinch of an IV in his hand, a familiar, anchoring warmth and weight on his other. Then sound: the steady beep-beep-beep that meant alive. Then sight: the blurred white ceiling, the soft grey light of early morning.
He turned his head, a slow, laborious movement. He saw Thee first, asleep in an armchair, his head tilted back, lines of worry etched even in slumber. Peach was curled into his side, a blanket over them both. A wave of relief, soft and warm, washed through him. Theerakit Kian Lee is safe.
Then he felt it again. The weight on his hand. He looked down.
There, slumped in a chair pulled impossibly close, was Rome. His face was turned towards Mok, pressed against their clasped hands. Even in sleep, he looked haunted—dark circles like bruises under his eyes, his brow furrowed, his lips slightly parted. He seemed younger, and immeasurably older, all at once.
A love so profound it was a physical pain blossomed in Mok’s chest, sharp and sweet. Rome. His stern, beautiful, impossible Rome. He was here. He looked wrecked.
Mok’s free arm felt heavy, leaden, but the need was too great. With immense effort, he lifted it, his muscles protesting with a dull fire. He managed to raise his hand, his fingers trembling, and settled them gently on Rome’s head. He brushed through the soft, dark strands, the touch feather-light. I missed you.
The touch, faint as it was, was a seismic event.
Rome’s eyes flew open. For a second, they were blank, disoriented, still swimming in the nightmares of the past few days. Then they focused. They found Mok’s eyes—open, aware, looking back at him.
A gasp, ragged and torn, escaped Rome’s lips. The hollowed-out shell of a man shattered.
“Mok?”
It was a whisper, a prayer, a question too fragile to be spoken aloud.
Mok tried to smile. It was a weak, trembling thing, but it was real. “Rome,” he breathed, his voice a dry, unused rasp.
That single syllable broke the dam.
With a choked sound that was half-sob, half-laugh, Rome surged up. He didn’t just hug Mok; he enveloped him, his arms sliding around Mok’s shoulders with a desperate, trembling strength, burying his face in the crook of Mok’s neck. His whole body shuddered.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, the words muffled against Mok’s skin, hot and wet with tears he didn’t bother to hide. “I thought… I couldn’t… Mok.” He said his name like it was the only word left in any language.
Mok brought his other arm up, ignoring the stab of pain, and wrapped it as best he could around Rome’s back. He held him, grounding him, his fingers splaying against the tense muscles. “I’m here,” he whispered into Rome’s hair, his own eyes burning. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Rome pulled back just enough to cup Mok’s face in both hands, his thumbs sweeping over his cheeks as if to verify he was real. His brown eyes, usually so controlled, swam with a torrent of emotion—relief, guilt, fury, love, all churning into a storm. “They shot you. Because of my family. I watched the cctv footage. You were bleeding… there was so much blood…” His voice broke. “I should have been there. I should have protected you.”
“Shhh,” Mok soothed, his voice gaining a little strength. “You did. Thee is safe. That was the job. That was my job.” He searched Rome’s face, seeing the fresh ghosts haunting him. “But you… what did you do, Rome? Your eyes… you look like you’ve fought a war.”
A shadow passed over Rome’s face. The lover receded briefly, and the specter of the man from the warehouse flashed in his gaze. “I did,” he admitted, his voice dropping low, for Mok’s ears only. “I wanted to burn the whole world down for you.”
Mok’s hand came up to cover Rome’s where it held his face. He didn’t flinch from the darkness. He understood it. He lived in that world too. But his touch was gentle. “The world is still here. I’m still here. You don’t have to burn anything else.” He pulled Rome’s hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. “Just stay. Stay right here.”
The raw plea undid the last of Rome’s defenses. The vengeance, the madness, the power—it all bled away, leaving only the terrifying, beautiful vulnerability of love.
“I love you,” Rome blurted out, the words raw and unvarnished, as if he’d been holding them back for a century. “I know I don’t say it. I know I’m… difficult. And I have a terrible temper. But I love you so much it feels like a sickness in my bones. The thought of a world without you in it… it’s not a world I want to live in. It’s empty. It’s nothing.”
Tears welled in Mok’s eyes, spilling over. He had waited, patiently, steadfastly, for this man to trust him with this. To say the words that matched the intensity of his actions. “Rome…”
“You are my heart, Mok,” Rome continued, his own tears falling freely now, mingling with Mok’s. “You are my only peace. My only home. Please. Don’t leave me.”
Mok pulled him down, his strength returning in this one, vital act. He sealed the confession with a kiss. It was not passionate or demanding, but deep, tender, and soul-achingly sweet. A promise. A homecoming. A balm on all the fresh and old wounds.
When they finally parted, foreheads resting together, breathing the same air, a soft sound broke the moment.
A cleared throat.
They turned their heads, still wrapped up in each other.
Thee and Peach were awake, watching them. Thee had a look of profound, brotherly relief on his face. Peach was smiling, his eyes glistening with happy tears.
“Well,” Thee said, his voice rough with sleep and emotion. “Someone’s having breakfast.”
Peach elbowed him gently, but his smile widened. “Don’t tease them, P’Kian. That was beautiful.” He looked at Rome and Mok, his expression soft. “We’re so glad you’re awake, Khun Mok.”
A faint, uncharacteristic blush tinged Rome’s cheeks, but he didn’t let go of Mok. He just held him tighter, as if daring anyone to comment.
Mok chuckled softly, wincing at the pull on his stitches. “How long was I out?”
“Long enough for your boyfriend to declare a one-man war on the Yakuza and turn into a dramatic, sleep-deprived romance novel hero,” Thee deadpanned, standing up and stretching. “He hasn’t eaten or slept in days. He’s been… intense.”
Rome shot his brother a glare, but there was no real heat in it. The tension that had held the room for days had finally snapped, replaced by a weary, giddy relief.
Peach got up and poured a glass of water, bringing it to Mok. “Here, drink slowly.”
As Mok sipped, his eyes never leaving Rome’s, Thee came to stand at the foot of the bed. He looked at Mok, his expression turning serious for a moment. “Thank you,” he said, the two words laden with a lifetime of debt and brotherhood.
Mok just nodded. Then he looked back at Rome, who was watching him as if he’d hung the moon and stars. He brought their joined hands to his chest, over his heart.
“You’re stuck with me, Krisdanai Rome Lee,” Mok whispered, a true, full smile finally gracing his lips.
Rome finally smiled back—a real, beautiful, if exhausted, smile that reached his eyes and lit up his whole face. He leaned in and kissed Mok again, softly, briefly, a silent vow.
In the corner, Peach leaned into Thee and whispered, “We’re never going to hear the end of this, are we?”
Thee wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close, watching his brother finally find his way back from the edge. “No,” he murmured, his own heart full. “But for once, I don’t mind at all.”
In the quiet hospital room, with the morning sun now streaming in, washing away the last of the night’s shadows, the four of them simply existed. Broken pieces, slowly knitting back together, held by the fierce, messy, unbreakable bonds of love. The storm had passed. For now, in this small, guarded room, there was only peace, and the soft, sure sound of hearts healing, beat by steady beat.