Chapter 8 : A hundred thousand times, Marken.

Serena woke with a start, sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains, casting soft gold patterns across the bed. Her head felt heavy, her body sluggish. When she finally turned toward the clock on the bedside table, her heart sank—noon.

The world outside was achingly bright. Through the open window drifted the faint scent of flowers and city air, mingling into something distant and unreal. She pressed a hand against her chest, feeling the faint, uneven rhythm of her heartbeat.

Cornelius’s funeral should be over by now, she thought. How is Alexander? Did he really vanish somewhere like Matheo said?

The thought tightened her throat. She should have been by Alexander’s side, standing beside him through grief, through loss—but she was here instead, trapped in this strange, suffocating place.

The door suddenly burst open with a harsh clang. Marken’s alter ego—Matheo—stepped inside. His expression was calm, but his eyes gleamed with dark amusement when he saw her red-rimmed eyes.

“Worried about Alexander, are you?” he taunted, his lips curling.

Serena’s face immediately hardened. She refused to let him see her pain.

Matheo’s smile faded, replaced by irritation. “Silent treatment again?” he muttered coldly, walking closer. “Too bad. You’ll be staying with me for a while, whether you like it or not.”

He tossed a sandwich onto the nearby table with a careless flick of his wrist. “Eat. We’re leaving soon.”

Serena stared at the sandwich for a long moment before quietly obeying. Her appetite had been fragile for days, the taste of food turning bitter in her mouth.

She forced herself to take small bites, each one feeling like sawdust. Midway through, a sharp cramp coiled through her stomach. Her face blanched, and she barely made it to the bathroom before she began to vomit.

Leaning against the sink, she trembled, the cold porcelain pressing into her palms as she tried to steady her breathing.

Matheo stood outside the door, his tone sharp and mocking. “What’s this? Are you pregnant?”

Serena froze.

He let out a low, cruel laugh. “Whose child would it be, I wonder? Mine—or Alexander’s?”

Her stomach lurched again, but this time it wasn’t just nausea—it was fear.

When the wave of sickness passed, she rinsed her mouth and pressed a shaking hand to her abdomen. Matheo, arms crossed, leaned lazily against the doorway, watching her with a predator’s amusement.

“Maybe we should go to the hospital and find out,” he said with a smirk. “Remember that night? I didn’t use protection. I wonder if you bothered with the morning-after pill afterward.”

The words hit her like ice water. Serena’s face drained of color.

She hadn’t taken anything. In the chaos, in her desperation to keep it all from Alexander, she had forgotten the most basic, most crucial thing.

When was the last time I had my period?

Her mind raced. She couldn’t remember. Panic fluttered in her chest, wild and suffocating.

Matheo, oblivious to the storm inside her, gripped her wrist roughly. “Enough of this,” he said, his voice laced with impatience. “The jet leaves tonight. You’re coming with me.”

He dragged her toward the stairs, his hold iron-tight. Serena stumbled, catching herself on the railing just before her knees buckled.

This version of Marken—Matheo—was a different creature entirely. He had none of Marken’s warmth, none of his restraint. His eyes were cold, his every movement deliberate and merciless.

And Serena, helpless in his grasp, could only wonder how much more of herself she would lose before she found a way out.

---

By the time they reached the first floor, Marken’s alter ego was still determined to keep moving forward—until he suddenly felt a weight tug on his hand. He turned sharply, only to see Serena collapsing, her body going limp.

“Serena?” he called, catching her before she hit the ground.

Her head lolled against his arm, her face frighteningly pale, lips drained of color. Marken’s alter ego quickly pressed his fingers beneath her nose—she was still breathing, shallow but steady. Relief flickered for an instant before dread quickly followed.

He couldn’t take her to a hospital. Not here.

If he did, Alexander’s people would find them in a heartbeat. Alexander had been on his trail for weeks—each step Marken’s alter ego took, each alias he used, was shadowed by pursuit. If not for the fact that his current identity was unregistered after “Marken’s” supposed death, he would’ve been caught long ago.

He carried Serena to the couch, laying her down gently. Her hair fanned over the cushion, her skin translucent in the dim lamplight. For a long second, he simply stared at her—this fragile, stubborn woman who had somehow survived everything he’d put her through.

Then he snapped out of it and made a call.

“Douglas, I need you to come. Now,” he said, voice clipped.

Dr. Douglas McKinney, a trusted private physician who owed him a favor, arrived less than half an hour later, a medical bag in hand. He bent over Serena, checking her pulse and examining her eyes.

“She’s suffering from a severe gastric episode,” Douglas murmured. “Her stomach lining is inflamed—likely from stress, irregular meals, and exhaustion. I’ll prescribe medication, but she needs rest. No travel, no heavy food, and definitely no stress. Otherwise, it could worsen quickly.”

Marken’s alter ego frowned, his jaw tightening. He thought back to the past few days—how he’d driven her relentlessly, how he’d cornered and pressured her without rest. He hadn’t noticed. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to notice.

“She has stomach issues?” he asked hoarsely. “Why didn’t she say anything?”

Douglas sighed, mixing a solution. “Most people ignore the pain until they collapse. Especially people like her.”

The clock ticked softly in the background. The plane was scheduled to depart in a few hours, and he couldn’t stay in New York much longer. He rubbed his temples, trying to think.

“Can you give her a sedative?” Marken’s alter ego asked finally. “We have a flight to catch.”

Douglas froze mid-motion, turning to him in disbelief. “A flight? Sir, she’s in no condition to travel. If she collapses again midair, there won’t be much you can do. The pressure, the altitude—it could make things worse.”

His patience thinned. “Just give her something mild,” he said sharply. Marken’s alter ego bent and gave Serena’s shoulder a light shake. “Serena. Wake up.”

No response.

Her face was still ghostly white, her lips barely moving with each breath. For a fleeting, irrational moment, he wondered if she was faking—some ploy to stay behind, to avoid him. But the thought dissolved as soon as he looked closer. Her hands were cold, and her breathing too shallow to be pretended.

“Serena,” he whispered again, shaking her a little harder. A sharp, familiar pain pulsed in his temples, rising until it almost blurred his vision.

Douglas hesitated nearby, noticing the change in Marken’s expression—the sudden tightness in his shoulders, the way his eyes darkened.

“Thank you, Dr. McKinney,” Marken said after a long pause, voice suddenly calm but distant. “Leave the medication. I’ll handle it.”

Douglas nodded, clearly relieved to be dismissed. Still, he couldn’t resist offering a warning. “Sir, please make sure she actually rests. If her stomach ulcer worsens, it could lead to cancer. And if that happens… the pain is unbearable.”

Marken didn’t respond.

Douglas prepared an IV drip, inserting the needle gently into Serena’s hand. The moment the thin silver glint of the needle caught Marken’s eye, he flinched back.

His breath hitched. His body moved before his mind caught up.

It wasn’t fear—it was memory. A flash of something raw and violent flickered across his face. He stepped backward, gripping the edge of the nearby chair until his knuckles turned white.

Douglas looked up, mistaking his reaction. “If you’re afraid of needles, sir, you don’t have to watch,” he said kindly.

But Marken didn’t hear him. His gaze was locked on Serena’s arm, the slow drip of fluid into her veins, and somewhere deep inside, something twisted painfully. He lowered his head, trying to breathe through the constriction in his chest.

Douglas straightened the IV line and gathered his things. “When the bottle runs dry, remove the needle carefully,” he instructed.

Marken gave a small nod, his eyes unfocused.

“Good night, sir.”

When the doctor finally left, the apartment fell silent again—except for the faint sound of the IV drip, rhythmic and haunting.

Marken sat down across from her, on a single sofa opposite the couch. Though he wanted to stay close, something held him back. It was as if the space around her was charged, fragile, dangerous—like one wrong move would shatter the thin, delicate peace between them.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and simply watched her.

Marken didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there—seconds, minutes, maybe hours—until Serena’s pained gasp snapped him back to reality.

He turned sharply, his heart plummeting when he saw the blood in the IV line reversing its flow, seeping back toward the bottle.

“Serena—”

He rushed forward, fumbling for the needle in her hand, but his own hands betrayed him. Memories—flashes of cold rooms, blinding lights, the sting of countless needles—poured through his mind like acid. His fingertips trembled uncontrollably. He tried again and again, but the trembling grew worse.

The man once hailed as a genius couldn’t even remove a needle.

Serena’s eyelids fluttered open to find his pale, anxious face hovering above her. Then her gaze fell on the tube, on her blood pooling unnaturally. Alarm shot through her, and with a sudden burst of strength, she yanked the needle out herself.

Anger flared through her exhaustion. Without thinking, she turned the needle in her hand and thrust it toward Marken.

The sharp point sank into his palm. He didn’t even flinch.

For a moment, their eyes met—hers wide with disbelief, his clouded with a quiet despair. The color drained from his face as he stumbled backward, his breath uneven.

“I’m sorry, Serena,” he said hoarsely. His voice trembled, broken by something deeper than pain. 

Before she could reply, he turned and left—his steps uneven, like a man fleeing from his own shadow.

Serena tried to stand, her hands gripping the edge of the bed for support, but her limbs refused to cooperate. Her stomach twisted painfully. After several futile attempts, she sank back down, drenched in sweat, her chest heaving.

Where had he gone?

---

Marken stumbled into a small room down the corridor—a storage chamber with no windows, no light. He shut the door behind him and turned the lock, trapping himself inside.

The darkness swallowed him whole.

To anyone else, such confinement would have been suffocating. But for Marken, it was the only place that felt remotely safe. Here, there were no needles. No eyes watching. No expectations.

He slid down against the cold wall, clutching his injured hand to his chest. Blood seeped through his fingers, warm and sticky. His breathing came ragged, echoing faintly in the hollow space.

Then, from the depths of his mind, a voice rose—the familiar, mocking murmur of his other self.

“A hundred thousand times, Marken.” The voice was soft, almost amused. “That’s how many times you were pricked. I see it all now—your memories, your fear. You were just a test subject, weren’t you? Locked in that observation chamber, drugged, stabbed, observed. Every time the needle pierced your skin, they measured your pain. They stripped you of dignity long before you even realized it. A hundred thousand needles, Marken. Just remembering it hurts.”

Marken pressed his hands over his ears, shaking his head. “Shut up.”

It was the first time his composure shattered completely. His chest heaved, his body trembling under the weight of old terror. Sweat clung to his hairline, trickling down his temples.

His alter ego chuckled—a low, serpentine sound in the dark. “So that’s it. That’s why sharp objects make your hands shake. That’s why you hide behind control. You’re terrified.”

Marken didn’t answer. His throat felt tight, his vision flickering with phantom lights from the past—white rooms, restrained limbs, the echo of his own screams.

The voice softened, coaxing now. “Marken, you’re unwell. Why keep fighting? Let me take over. For you, living is just humiliation now. Pain. You’ve carried it too long. Give me control, and I’ll finish what you couldn’t. You’re still holding on because of something—someone—you can’t let go of. You still have unfulfilled desire, isn’t that right?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Somewhere in that darkness, Marken’s breathing slowed. His mind felt like it was teetering between surrender and defiance, between the past and the fragile thread of something still worth living for.

And deep down, his other self already knew her name.

Serena.