Chapter 66: Chapter 66

Ye Jun

I didn’t sleep. Lay there on my back staring at the ceiling, cataloging everything like it was some kind of inventory I needed for later.

Fingerprint bruises on my throat, high enough I’d need a turtleneck tomorrow or Mom would start asking questions. Five clear marks, dark purple now, thumb print bigger than the others because he pressed hardest there. A bite mark on my shoulder, deep enough the skin broke in two places, already turning that ugly purple-black color that would take days to fade. Rope burn on both wrists from the belt he looped and pulled tight, red lines that looked like they’d been drawn with a hot wire, stinging sharp every time I moved my hands even a little. I touched them one by one, slowly , pressing just enough to feel the ache bloom again fresh. Smiled into the dark because yeah, I’d let my stepbrother take my virginity and treat me like a damn object, used me until I couldn’t think straight, and what’s even the point of living when the only thing that felt alive was the pain he left on my skin.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Sharp sound in the quiet room. I grabbed it fast before it could buzz again, screen lighting up my face cold and bright, and I gasped so hard it felt like he was choking me all over again, hand around my throat squeezing just right. Didn’t open the message. Just stared at the notification until the screen went black and my reflection stared back, eyes wide, lips still swollen.

No. There was actually a reason to live.

I rolled over, face buried in the pillow that still smelled like both of us his sweat, my blood, the sharp bite of his cologne mixed with something raw and desperate. The laugh that came out turned into something else halfway through, something tight in my chest that made my eyes burn hot. I mean, come on, who loses their virginity to their stepbrother in the most screwed-up hate-sex session ever, bodies slamming together like we were trying to hurt each other more than anything else, gets fucked and used repeatedly and then gets hit with a text like that right after? Me, apparently.

The golden boy who saved the pitch today, scored the winning goal everyone cheered for, and now had bruises in places nobody could see, marks that throbbed every time I breathed. Hilarious. Absolutely hilarious. I laughed again, muffled into the pillow, until my shoulders shook hard, and then it wasn’t funny anymore. Just heavy. Like the kind of heavy that makes you wonder if you’re actually crying or if your body’s just too tired to keep pretending everything’s fine.

I stayed like that for a long time, face pressed down, breathing in the smell of last night until it made my stomach twist. Every small shift pulled at the rope burns, sent fresh stings up my arms. I didn’t care. The pain kept me grounded, kept the blurry edges of shock from swallowing me whole.

I kept replaying it in my head not the sex itself, but the moments right before and right after. The way his eyes changed when he realized I wasn’t fighting back anymore. The way he whispered my name like a curse when he came. The way he looked at me afterward, like he hated himself more than he hated me. And then the phone buzzed, and everything flipped again.

I didn’t open the message. Couldn’t. Not yet. If I read it, whatever was in there would become real, and I wasn’t ready for reality. Not when my body still felt like it belonged to him. Not when every mark screamed his name.

Morning came too fast. Sunlight cut through the blinds in thin sharp lines across the bed. I forced myself up, every muscle complaining. The mirror in the bathroom showed me what I already knew: throat marked high, bite ugly and obvious, wrists raw. I pulled the turtleneck from the back of the closet black, boring, perfect for hiding evidence. Fabric scratched against the bite when I tugged it on. I winced but didn’t stop. From downstairs it smelled like coffee and toast and the normal life I was pretending to fit into.

Mom was already in full performance mode at the breakfast table, phone in one hand, coffee in the other, talking a mile a minute about how “Ye Jun saved the day” and how she’d already told all her friends and how Dad was thinking about moving me up to the senior squad and blah blah blah. She beamed at me the second I sat down, eyes all soft and proud like I’d cured cancer instead of just stealing files and handing them over like the perfect little spy.

“My smart boy,” she said, reaching over to pat my hand. Her fingers were warm. Mine felt like ice. “Look at you, already dressed for work. So responsible.”

I smirked, because what else could I do? “Yeah, well, somebody had to be.”

Dad grunted from behind his newspaper, gave me that quick approving nod again. the same one he gave last night before he left the house and went back to reading. Si-woo was already there, across from me, sleeves rolled down long like he was hiding something too, coffee cup gripped so tight his knuckles were white. He didn’t look up. Just stared at his plate like it had personally offended him, eggs cold, toast untouched.

I slid my foot under the table anyway, slowly and intentionally . Let my toe drag up his calf the way I had back then when everything still felt like it could be a game. He froze. Fork halfway to his mouth. The metal trembled for half a second. I kept going, casually , like I was just stretching my legs after a bad night’s sleep, and whispered under my breath when Mom turned to grab the juice carton from the fridge, “Morning, Si woo. Sleep well?”

He kicked my ankle hard enough to send a sharp sting racing up my leg, but he didn’t pull away. “Shut up,” he muttered, voice low and rough like he hadn’t slept either. His eyes finally flicked to mine. They were tired, red at the edges. Angry. And something else I couldn’t name yet something dark and heavy that made my pulse kick harder.

Mom spun back around, still chatting away, completely blind to the tension thick enough to choke on. “Si-woo, you’re quiet today. Everything okay ?”

Si-woo’s jaw ticked. Muscle jumped under the skin. “Yeah. Real nice.”

I leaned back in my chair, sipping my orange juice slow, letting the acid burn the small cut on my lip. Couldn’t help but remember the text message I got last night. The one I still hadn’t opened. I had screenshoted and sent it to Titi. The preview line burned behind my eyes: I knew Titi will call in 3…2…1.

The phone rang.

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