Capítulo 112: chapter 107
Beom's anger, though fiery and unrelenting, began to shift under the weight of his emotions. His chest tightened, his breaths came in shallow gasps, and the dam holding back his tears started to crack. The betrayal was too much, the hurt too deep. He clenched his fists, trying to keep it together, but his voice trembled as he shouted again.
"Do you have any idea how this feels?!" His words broke, catching in his throat. "You... you made me believe you cared, Yaroslav! You made me think—" He stopped, unable to finish the sentence. His vision blurred, the tears he'd been fighting so hard to suppress spilling down his cheeks.
Beom wiped at his face with the back of his hand, trying to hold on to the anger, but it was no use. A sob escaped his lips, and then another. His knees gave way, and he sank to the floor, his hands covering his face as the tears came in full force. The weight of everything—the betrayal, the manipulation, the violation—pressed down on him, suffocating him.
"Why...?" he choked out between sobs, his voice small and broken now. "Why would you do this to me...? I trusted you... I... I didn't deserve this." Beom's shoulders shook as he cried, his body trembling under the weight of his anguish.
Yaroslav stood there, silent and unmoving. His blue eyes were fixed on Beom, his face as unreadable as ever. He didn't say anything, didn't move to comfort him, didn't even try to explain himself. He just stood there, watching.
The lack of reaction only made Beom feel worse. "Say something!" he yelled through his tears, his voice cracking with desperation. "Anything! Explain to me why you did it! Do you even care?! Or am I just... just some project to you? Some... experiment?" His words dissolved into another sob, his face buried in his hands.
The room was suffocatingly quiet except for Beom's broken cries. The sight of Yaroslav, standing so composed and indifferent, only deepened the ache in Beom's chest. How could he stand there, so calm, while Beom's world was falling apart?
Beom's thoughts spiraled into chaos. How long has he been planning this? How long has he been lying to me? Was any of it real? The smiles, the little gestures... were they all part of some sick plan? His hands trembled as he clutched his knees, trying to hold himself together.
Finally, Yaroslav moved. He took a step forward, his expression still unreadable, his icy blue eyes focused on Beom. "Are you done?" he asked, his voice as calm and controlled as ever.
Beom's head snapped up, his tear-streaked face filled with a mix of disbelief and anger. "Are you... are you serious?" he stammered, his voice trembling. "That's all you have to say? After everything you've done?"
Yaroslav's lips twitched, but it wasn't quite a smirk. It was something colder, sharper. "I told you before, Beom," he said, his tone as smooth as ice. "You're mine. Your body, your mind, your everything—it belongs to me. I don't need your permission to do what's necessary."
Beom felt the words like a physical blow, his breath hitching as fresh tears welled in his eyes. "You're a monster," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I... I can't believe I ever trusted you."
Yaroslav crouched down to Beom's level, his face still infuriatingly calm. "You'll understand someday," he said quietly, his gaze piercing. "When you stop fighting me and accept it, you'll see that everything I've done was for your own good."
Beom shook his head violently, his tears falling freely again. "You don't get to decide what's good for me! You don't get to control me, Yaroslav! I'm not... I'm not your property!"
For the first time, a flicker of something crossed Yaroslav's face—something almost like regret, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He reached out as if to touch Beom's face, but Beom flinched away, his expression a mix of fear and defiance.
"Don't touch me," Beom spat, his voice trembling. "You don't have that right anymore."
Yaroslav withdrew his hand slowly, standing up and looking down at Beom. His blue eyes seemed to darken, but he said nothing more. Instead, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving Beom alone on the kitchen floor, his sobs echoing in the silence.
Beom curled into himself, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees as he cried. What do I do now? How do I move forward from this? The questions hung in his mind, unanswered and suffocating. For the first time in his life, Beom felt truly powerless, and the realization broke him even further.
Beom wiped at his face, trying to rid himself of the last traces of his tears, though his red-rimmed eyes gave him away. The faint shakiness in his voice betrayed how broken he still felt, but he was determined not to show any more weakness. I can't fall apart again, he told himself, forcing his feet to carry him to the hall where Yaroslav was cleaning.
Yaroslav stood there with a mop in hand, lazily swiping it across the floor, his expression as unreadable as ever. His icy blue eyes flicked up to meet Beom's, and for a moment, silence stretched between them—so thick it was almost suffocating. Beom folded his arms tightly across his chest, trying to appear resolute, his voice steady despite the tremor hiding underneath.
"Since you're so intent on keeping me here forever," Beom said flatly, "at least let me call my mom. I want to know how she's doing." His gaze hardened as he looked at Yaroslav, as if daring him to refuse. "You can sit there and listen to the conversation if you want. I don't care."
Yaroslav paused, his hand stilled on the mop handle. His sharp, calculating gaze locked onto Beom's face, assessing him, as though searching for cracks in his defiance. Beom didn't flinch this time. He stood his ground, the remnants of his tears making his expression all the more raw, yet determined.
Seconds passed like hours until finally, Yaroslav put the mop aside and turned, wordlessly leaving the room. The sound of his footsteps echoing down the hallway felt louder than it should have. Beom's heartbeat quickened. Is he actually going to let me call? he wondered, his mind a whirlwind of emotions—hope, dread, confusion.
Yaroslav returned a minute later, carrying a small bag. He dropped it on the coffee table with a soft thud before pulling out its contents: a small, black device, a pair of earbuds, and—to Beom's shock—a gun. Beom's breath hitched as he took a step back instinctively, his eyes flickering between the items and Yaroslav's emotionless face.
"What... what the hell is this?" Beom demanded, his voice wavering as he stared at the gun.
Yaroslav didn't answer. Instead, he picked up the weapon, the metallic surface catching the light as he pointed it directly at Beom. "Sit down," he ordered, his voice low and cold, leaving no room for negotiation.
Beom froze in place, his heart thundering in his chest. Is he serious? He wouldn't—no, he would. There was no telling what Yaroslav was capable of anymore. Gritting his teeth, Beom slowly lowered himself onto the sofa, his body tense, his every nerve on edge. He wanted to scream at Yaroslav, to throw something at him, but the barrel of the gun kept him in place.
Once Beom sat, Yaroslav lowered the weapon slightly and handed over the phone. His other hand hovered over the small black device, switching it on with a sharp click. "Make the call," Yaroslav said, his tone void of any emotion. He stepped back slightly but didn't move far, the gun still in his grip.
Beom looked down at the phone in his trembling hands. His throat felt tight, like it was closing up, but he swallowed hard and forced himself to focus. He glanced up at Yaroslav, who now had the earbuds in his ears, and a sudden realization hit Beom—that device... it's a translator.
Beom clenched the phone tightly, anger bubbling in his chest again. Of course. He doesn't trust me. He's going to monitor every single word I say, making sure I don't try to ask for help. It stung more than he cared to admit, knowing just how little freedom he truly had. His chest ached as his thoughts spiraled—Is this my life now? Every word, every move, watched and controlled by him?
"Call," Yaroslav repeated, his blue eyes narrowing slightly.
Beom shot him a glare before looking back down at the screen. He found his mother's number quickly, his thumb hovering over it for a split second before he pressed the button to dial. The phone rang. With every ring, Beom's heart pounded harder, and a cold sweat formed on the back of his neck.
What do I even say to her? he thought frantically. I can't tell her the truth. I can't tell her I'm trapped here. She'll worry... she'll—
"Hello? Beom?"
His mother's voice came through the line, soft and sweet, instantly bringing tears to Beom's eyes. He covered his mouth with his hand for a moment, choking back the sudden wave of emotion. I missed her. I missed her so much.
"Hi, Mom," he said, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to steady himself.
"Beom! Oh my goodness, it's been so long since I've heard your voice. How are you, my son?"
Beom swallowed hard, forcing a small, shaky smile. "I'm okay, Mom," he said softly. He could feel Yaroslav's gaze burning into him from across the room, and it took every ounce of self-control not to let the rage and despair show in his voice. "How... how are you? Are you doing well? Are you eating?"
His mother chuckled lightly on the other end. "You always ask the same things. I'm fine, Beom. I just miss you. It's so quiet without you around."
Beom's chest tightened painfully, and he gripped the phone tighter. He could feel tears threatening to spill again, but he blinked them back furiously. "I miss you too, Mom," he whispered. "I... I'll come visit you soon. I promise."
Yaroslav's eyes narrowed slightly at that, his grip on the gun shifting ever so subtly, as if reminding Beom of the consequences of saying too much.
"Really? Oh, that would make me so happy, Beom!"
"Yeah... soon," Beom said, his voice faltering. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. I don't know how or when, but I'll get out of here. I'll see you again, Mom. I swear I will.
Their conversation continued briefly—small talk, simple questions, nothing that would set off Yaroslav's suspicions. Beom's heart ached with every word, wanting so badly to tell his mother everything, to beg her for help. But he couldn't. Not with Yaroslav looming over him like a shadow, ready to strike.
When the call finally ended, Beom sat there in silence, the phone still clutched in his hand. Yaroslav pulled the earbuds from his ears, turning off the translator device and placing it back on the table.
Beom looked up at him, his face pale, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Are you happy now?" he asked bitterly, his voice trembling. "Was that good enough for you? You got what you wanted."
Yaroslav didn't respond. He simply picked up the gun and turned to leave the room, his expression unreadable as always.
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