𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤

Ohm sat in his bedroom, his one iron leg resting motionless on the bed. Chimon stood before him, hands planted firmly on his hips, his expression a mixture of concern and exasperation.

"Ohm," he began, "I'm telling you, going against the Theerapakunyuns is pointless. It'll only bring us more harm than we've already suffered."

Ohm sighed, reluctance etched on his face. "I know, Chimon, I know," he conceded, "I won't do anything... for now."

Chimon softened slightly. "Good. Focus on your leg healing right now. That's the most important thing. Speaking of which," he continued, a touch of forced brightness in his voice, "I got you a professional housekeeper. Someone to help you out while you're recovering."

Ohm frowned. "Chimon, I don't need a housekeeper. I can manage."

"Don't be stubborn," Chimon retorted. "Just take help, okay? It'll take a load off both of us." After a moment of consideration, Ohm finally nodded. "Alright, fine. But I'm warning you, if she starts fussing over me..."

"Actually," Chimon corrected, a playful glint in his eyes, "it's a guy. And he's already here. Let me call him in."

With that, Chimon turned and left the room, returning a moment later with a young man in tow. "Ohm, this is Nanon. Nanon, this is Ohm." Chimon gestured between them. "Nanon used to work as a sous chef, so food won't be a problem."

Nanon offered a warm smile, but as Ohm looked at him, something ugly twisted within him, an inexplicable feeling of unease he couldn't quite grasp.

"Myself Nanon Korapat," the young man said, his smile widening, "Nice to meet you."

The night was a chilling tapestry of shadows and silence, the city lights painting long, distorted streaks across the inky sky. Ohm slept soundly, the heavy dose of his medication pulling him into a deep, dreamless slumber. Through the opulent apartment, Nanon moved with a stealthy grace, his bare feet making no sound on the polished floors. A chef's knife, its blade gleaming wickedly in the dim light, twirled effortlessly in his hand.

He reached Ohm's bedroom and slipped inside. The sight of Ohm's sleeping figure filled him with a perverse satisfaction. So unguarded, so vulnerable. He moved towards the bed and bent down, his face inches away from Ohm's. He guided the tip of the knife to Ohm's pulse point, the cold steel resting lightly against his skin. He held it there, admiring the view, savoring the moment. Then, a slow, chilling smile spread across his face.

"As much as I want to do this now," he whispered softly, his breath ghosting over Ohm's skin, "I can't. I need to wait for the right moment. Or he will complain" He removed the knife, the desire palpable in the air, then turned and walked silently out of the room, leaving the chilling promise of a future darkness hanging heavy in his wake.

𝐅𝐞𝐰 𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫

Pooh was enjoying a pleasant drive to a seminar. The weather was beautiful, sunlight dappling through the trees, and soft, melodic music filled the interior of his car. The road stretched ahead, promising a smooth and uneventful journey.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated with a notification. He instinctively slowed his speed, glancing down to take a quick look. He didn't even have time to register the message when a deafening crash shattered the peaceful atmosphere. The screech of metal against metal and the shattering of glass filled the air. Pooh slammed on the brakes, his body lurching forward against the seatbelt.

When the car finally shuddered to a halt, Pooh cautiously looked outside. Two wagons had collided head-on, their front ends mangled and twisted into grotesque shapes. A wave of cold dread washed over him as he realized that if he hadn't slowed down to check his phone, he would have been right in the middle of that devastating collision. The thought made him gulp, his throat suddenly dry.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the unease that was creeping into his mind. Maybe it was just a terrible accident, a random confluence of unfortunate circumstances. But the image of those mangled vehicles, the near-miss, lingered in his mind, casting a long shadow over the sunny day.

But was it really just an accident? The thought gnawed at him, a seed of suspicion planted in the fertile ground of his intuition.

𝐀𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

Red emerged from the steaming shower, the humid air clinging to his skin. Water droplets glistened on his body as he wrapped a towel around his waist, the simple act drawing his attention to the reflection staring back at him from the full-length mirror. He stood there, motionless, his gaze fixed on the map of his past etched onto his skin.

The burned marks, jagged and discolored, marred the smooth expanse of his chest and shoulders. Slender, angry slashes crisscrossed his abdomen, a testament of ugly nights, people and their sick pleasure.

Bullet scars, small and puckered, dotted his flesh like morbid constellations, each one a chilling reminder of near-death experiences.

He stepped closer to the mirror, his breath fogging the cool surface. He reached out a tentative hand, his fingertips tracing the contours of his own reflection. His jaw tightened, the muscles clenching as ugly memories surged back, unbidden and unwelcome. The phantom sensation of unwanted touches, the leering, lustful stares that had once haunted his waking hours, flashed through his mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply, as if trying to banish the darkness with a single breath. Then, he opened them again, his gaze hardening with a newfound resolve.

"You thought you could hide your son, huh?" he muttered, his voice a low, guttural growl. "Well, your son himself walked into my world, and now he will pay. Everyone has, and he will too. I won't let anyone get away with what they did to me."

He paused, his eyes blazing with a chilling fire, before softly whispering, "These scars are my crown."