At present.
The bathroom was dead cold — pale tiles climbed the walls in quiet symmetry, reflecting a faint overhead light that hummed without warmth. The air was dry and biting. The only movement in the room came from the freezing water.
Vernon Krossvale sat along the edge of the bathtub, the icy water swallowing most of his torso — shoulders, collarbones, the broad plane of his chest, the firm lines of muscle across his abdomen. Only the sharp angle of his hip bones marked where water met air.
His face was beneath the surface.
Dark hair drifted weightlessly around his head, long strands spreading slowly in the water, brushing his temples and jaw. The water blurred his features into wavering shadows, yet his structure remained severe — a strong brow marked by a cut on the left side, fierce eyes beneath closed lids, a straight nose, sharp cheekbones, a firm mouth resting in stillness.
His eyes were closed.
Not in sleep—not in death—in restraint.
The cold pressed mercilessly against his skin, tightening over muscle and sliding across old scars.
His broad shoulders looked immense even in stillness. The muscle along his arms, chest, and ribs held a dense strength — the kind shaped by impact and survival, not mirrors.
Fresh reddish scars faintly caught the light under the water. A deep cut across his abdomen lay just beneath the surface, bending with the ripple of the water like a memory that refused to fade. Smaller marks traced his shoulders and ribs — thin, healed lines from past violence.
His chest did not rise. He was holding his breath.
His hands rested loosely on the porcelain, fingers long and steady, knuckles pale from the cold. No tremor. No urgency. Only endurance.
Outside the water, his lower body remained grounded in reality. His long legs stretched across the tiled floor, black pleated pants dark where the water had soaked through at the waist. The fabric traced his thighs before loosening toward his knees and shins, falling in heavy folds. His large bare feet pressed against the cold tile.
The room carried no scent of soap, no warmth of comfort.
Only cold porcelain. Cold water. Cold light.
And him.
A broad-shouldered man beneath the water, motionless — suspended between suffocation and control.
Underwater, the world had turned distant and muffled. The hum of the light above became a low vibration through bone. Even his own heartbeat sounded far away, a muted thud beyond the water's veil.
He remained there.
Not drowning.
Not searching for peace.
Only testing how long he could endure silence before memory returned.
----
FLASHBACK
Under the cloak of a moonless night, the abandoned warehouse loomed like a forgotten tomb, its rusted metal beams echoing with sounds that clawed at the soul. Laughter ricocheted off the walls—harsh, guttural barks that twisted joy into something grotesque, a mockery of humanity. It was the kind of laughter that fed on suffering, growing louder with every whimper it elicited.
Vernon Krossvale, the man who never smiled, never cried—the tallest figure, wearing the longest black coat among all, bare chest being visible due to having no inner garment , stood in his usual spot, a few paces removed, a silhouette carved from indifference. He wasn't part of the frenzy, never intervened, just observed like a ghost haunting the edges of hell.
The six of them—Kai Viramont Krossvale, Lucas Krossvale, Damon Krossvale, Leon Krossvale, Victor Krossvale, and Ren Krossvale—swarmed like feral wolves, their boots scuffing the grimy concrete as they encircled the girl at the center. She was thin, fragile, her body trembling uncontrollably, eyes wide with terror that screamed louder than her voice ever could.
Her screams pierced the air, raw and desperate—"No! Please, stop! Oh God, no!"—as they grabbed at her, tearing clothes and dignity away in ragged strips, exposing pale skin that would soon be marred beyond recognition.
Vernon never looked directly. He didn't need to. The sounds painted the horror vividly enough: the slap of flesh against flesh, the girl's choked sobs escalating into agonized howls as they violated her without mercy.
Damon pinned her arms down with iron grips, his grin splitting his face like a fresh wound. "Look at her squirm, boys—feisty little thing, ain't she? Bet she's never had it this rough," he snarled, his fingers digging into her wrists until bones creaked and bruises bloomed like dark flowers, her cries sharpening into piercing shrieks: "It hurts! Stop, please, it hurts so much!"
Vernon, stood silently, as immovable as a statue forged from cold steel. He lifted his gaze just once, and the sight clawed at something deep inside him, a tragedy unfolding in slow, excruciating motion.
Her boyfriend was already on the ground, curled and broken, hands trembling violently as tears carved filthy rivers through the grime on his face.
Lucas loomed above him like an executioner, boots slamming down in vicious rhythm—each kick a hammer blow that cracked bone and tore flesh. The first smashed into the boy's ribs with a wet snap, splintering them inward; he convulsed, spitting a thick spray of blood that painted the concrete red. Another boot drove into his face—his nose collapsed with a sickening crunch, cartilage pulverized, blood exploding outward in a hot mist that flecked Lucas's jeans.
The boy screamed, raw , broken. "Please," he begged, "Let her go... don't touch her... I beg you... she's innocent , she's everything to me... let her go... please....I will do anything for you.... please let her go...."
It was a plea born of love, helpless and pure pain, as he watched the woman he cherished being devoured alive by these monsters, her cries intertwining with his own desperate sobs
Lucas laughed, low and cruel, grinding his heel into the boy's shattered hand until fingers bent backward at unnatural angles, bones grinding audibly. "Keep begging, lover boy— your girlfriend is our to have fun with. " He stomped again, this time on the boy's thigh, the femur cracking like dry wood under the force.
Leon laughed, a high-pitched cackle that grated like nails on metal. "Hold her steady, Damon. I want my turn clean—gonna make her remember this forever."
He shoved forward, his hands rough and invading, forcing himself into her with brutal thrusts that tore at her insides, her body convulsing in waves of excruciating pain she couldn't escape.
She screamed relentlessly, her voice cracking into fragments—"Help me! Someone, please! No more, I can't take it!"—as blood began to trickle down her thighs, the metallic scent mingling with the warehouse's dank rot.
Ren joined in, grabbing her legs and spreading them wider, his nails raking deep gashes along her inner thighs. "Scream louder, bitch—we love a good concert," he mocked, plunging in alongside Leon, the dual invasion stretching and ripping her apart, her howls turning guttural, animalistic, as if her very soul was being shredded.
Unable to view his girlfriend in this state, the poor blooded boy screamed , "Stop! Stop... please, don't do this to her !!!! I beg you !!"
Lucas sneered , "Shut up, worm—your girl's our toy now." He stomped on the boy's hand, bones crunching under his boot, eliciting a fresh howl of agony as the boy writhed, still pleading: "Lana! Lana, I'm here... don't look, baby, close your eyes... everything will be alright..."
His girlfriend Lana closed her eyes harder as she heard her boyfriend's gentle voice. Thinking this hell might end soon.
The broken boy crawled forward anyway, inch by agonizing inch, toward the center of the nightmare, toward his girlfriend whose screams echoed his own despair. His fingers clawed at the concrete, nails breaking and bleeding, leaving smeared trails of red, but he kept moving, kept reaching, as if his will alone could shield her from the horror.
Victor joined in, kicking the boy's side with steel-toed boots, the impact echoing like thunder. "Pathetic. Begging like a dog—makes it more fun, though. Cry more, lover boy; your tears are lube for us."
The boy's body jerked, a rib snapping audibly with a sharp crack, blood bubbling from his lips as he coughed and screamed: "No! Leave her alone! I'll do anything... kill me, just stop hurting her!"
But Victor only ground his heel into the boy's back, vertebrae popping under the pressure, his laughter mingling with the boy's tortured wails.
To be continued...