Chapter 45 (ORIGINAL HARU POV:)
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The motel was a monument to faded desperation. It wasn't quite "rundown" that would imply it had once been something worth maintaining. Instead, it occupied a liminal space of architectural neglect. The owners had clearly made a half-hearted attempt at upkeep a decade ago, but the effort had died somewhere between the peeling floral wallpaper and the cigarette-burned carpets.
Stains layered the walls and ceilings like topographical maps. In an age of sleek Airbnbs and boutique hotels, this place served only one demographic: those who needed to disappear for an hour, and those who came to exchange sexual favors in the dark.
The bed creaked under the weight of the moving bodies, a rhythmic, mechanical protest. The headboard hit the wall with a practiced, hungry cadence that echoed through the thin walls.
Haru lay there, his head pushed forcefully against the cheap red sheets. The fabric was coarse, smelling of industrial detergent and the faint, underlying musk of a thousand previous occupants. He wondered, with a detached sort of morbid curiosity, how many people had been broken on this mattress. If someone were to walk in with a blue light, he was certain the room would erupt into a constellation of disgusting details -;a map of every secret ever traded for money or mercy.
A hand curled into his long hair, the grip tight and unforgiving, pulling his head back as the figure above him let out a low, guttural moan. Haru didn't cry out. He didn't even move. He simply stared at the wall, watching the shadow of their bodies dance against the stained plaster. He felt a hand on his waist tighten, the fingers digging into his skin with bruising force.
He closed his eyes, his mind drifting back to the day he first walked into that office. He had gone there because he felt guilty. It was a misplaced, toxic emotion ,a poison he had brewed himself. Why did he have to feel responsible for a man who had never been present? A man who had left him to fend for himself as a child, only to vanish and leave the crushing weight of gambling debts as his only inheritance. Did that man even have the legal right to be called a father?
His eyes watered as he felt the thrusts grow harder, deeper, invading the last sanctuary of his body . At least one person in the room was having the time of their life.
Haru remembered the first time he saw Min-hyuk. The man's voice had been like a winter wind - cold, biting, and promising a specific kind of death. He had told Haru, with a terrifying lack of emotion, that he had no problem cutting off the rest of his pathetic father's fingers and sending them to Haru in the mail if the debt wasn't settled.
Haru didn't know what had overcome him. Maybe it was fear. But fear of what? Fear of abandonment? He scoffed internally at the thought. His father had never been there to abandon him in the first place.
His mother had set the precedent long ago. She had left when he was so young he could barely formulate a full sentence. He still had the memory of coming home from kindergarten, standing on the sidewalk and waiting. He had thought she had just forgotten to pick him up again. As the sun dipped below the horizon and the streetlights flickered to life, he had walked home alone, used his spare key, and entered an empty, silent house.
He had learned to be self-sufficient since he was a child. His mother had praised him for it constantly, her voice a recording in his head: "At least you aren't a burden, Haru. " He had grown up believing that was the natural order of things.
He didn't understand why he had waited hours for her that night. He didn't understand why he kept the door unlocked for weeks. She had simply left, abandoning him to this miserable, grey life.
He sometimes blamed her for bringing him into the world at all - especially in moments like this, when he felt the air being squeezed out of his lungs.
Having Min-hyuk ravage his body, constantly whispering into his ear that he was "owned," felt like a slow execution of his soul.
But not everything was black. At least he had Se-hee. She was his sunshine, the only person who looked at him and saw a human being.
Min-hyuk reached down, his fingers tangling in Haru's hair again, forcing him onto his knees. The shift in position made the bed scream in protest. Min-hyuk continued, his pace relentless. This was already the third round. It was as if the man was insatiable, fueled by a dark, possessive hunger that could never be filled.
Haru's body was a canvas of bites and bruises. He looked up, his gaze catching the mirror mounted above the headboard. He felt despicable. Min-hyuk was leaning over him, his lips pressed against Haru's neck, sucking desperately at the pale skin until a dark mark bloomed. His hands remained locked on Haru's waist, thrusting deeper, making Haru let out a low, involuntary groan.
He hated the way his body reacted to the sensation, a traitorous, physical response to a violation he loathed. He let his head fall back onto Min-hyuk's shoulder, his vision swimming.
"You are mine!" Min-hyuk whispered menacingly against his ear.
The words sent a shiver of pure dread through Haru's spine. He remembered the day he offered himself. He hadn't seen any other path. The money was a mountain he couldn't climb, and he was so, so tired.
Perhaps, deep down, he had walked into that den hoping Min-hyuk would show a shred of mercy and simply end his life. Instead, he had been kept alive to be used as a sex toy, a living breathing asset to be summoned at a moment's notice.
"Fuck! You taste so good!" Min-hyuk grunted, forcing Haru into a fetal position on the mattress as he reached his peak.
Haru gripped the bedsheets until his knuckles turned white. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited. He wanted this to be over. He wanted the world to stop.
The air in the room was thick and stagnant when the weight finally lifted. The oppressive scent of Min-hyuk's tobacco lingered like a physical presence. The man didn't say goodbye. He never did. He simply finished using Haru's body like a ragdoll, adjusted his expensive suit, and walked out.
Haru lay perfectly still on the red sheets for a long time. His eyes were fixed on a water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a weeping eye. He wasn't really "in" his body anymore. Over the months, he had practiced the art of leaving,of drifting up toward the rafters where the sounds of the bed and the grunts of the man became muffled and distant.
When the heavy, final click of the door signaled Min-hyuk's departure, the silence that rushed back into the room was deafening. It felt like a vacuum, sucking the remaining warmth from the air.
Minutes that felt like a lifetime passed before Haru finally moved. He sat up, his movements mechanical and jerky, like a doll with frayed strings. Every joint ached. His skin felt tight, marked by the evidence of the last hour. He stumbled into the cramped bathroom, where a single flickering bulb cast a sickly yellow light over the room.
He caught his reflection in the cracked vanity mirror. The glass was split, dividing his face into jagged, unrecognizable pieces. It was a fitting image. He didn't know who the boy in the mirror was anymore.
The bile rose in his throat before he could stop it.
He fell to his knees on the cold, grimy tile. He wrenched, his body convulsive as he vomited into the toilet. He wasn't just purging the physical sickness; he was trying to purge the shame, the touch, the very essence of the life he was trapped in.
Tears finally broke free, racing down his cheeks and dripping onto the floor. He leaned his forehead against the stained white tiles of the bathroom wall and stayed there. Unmoving.
He hated this. He hated the man who had sired him. He hated the woman who had left him. But most of all, he hated himself for staying alive to endure it.