Chapter 2 :The Marks Of The Unknown.
519 Words
Willis moved like a storm.
His first stop was the hotel restrooms. They were silent, empty. But just as he turned to leave, something glinted faintly on the tiled floor.
A golden cufflink.
His blood turned cold.
The boss’s cufflink.
Michael had worn that exact pair last night.
This was clue number one.
Willis pocketed it and sprinted straight to the hotel reception.
A young female receptionist sat behind the counter, smiling politely—until Willis slammed both hands on the desk.
“Get your manager. Now.”
She flinched. Moments later, the manager hurried down the stairs.
Willis didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“Have you seen my young master?”
The manager froze. “Is he… missing?”
“That’s none of your concern. Just answer.”
The manager shook his head nervously. “I haven’t seen him.”
Willis’s jaw tightened. Fear clawed at his chest. Where on earth had the young master gone? How did he vanish inside a public hotel without anyone noticing?
Then the receptionist whispered timidly, “I… I saw him.”
Willis turned sharply.
“Where? What did you see?”
The girl swallowed.
“Last night, the Smiths’ young master was very drunk. One of his bodyguards was holding him up… and they booked a room.”
Willis’s heart dropped.
“What bodyguard? Describe him. What uniform did he wear?”
“I—I didn’t see clearly,” she stuttered. “Honestly… I was distracted by how handsome he was.”
Willis felt a spike of panic.
Someone impersonated security.
Someone bold enough to carry Michael away in plain sight.
If anything happened…
No. Don’t think like that. He must still be alive.
“Which room?” Willis demanded. “Give me the card.”
“Room 3818,” she said, handing it over quickly.
Willis didn’t waste a heartbeat.
He ran. Past the lobby. Past the elevator. Straight for the stairs.
Every second mattered.
Every breath felt too slow.
Young Master… please be safe.
---
Back in Room 3818
Michael finally managed to stand. His head still pounded, but he needed to wash up, clear his mind, and get out of this place.
He stripped off his clothes and stepped toward the bathroom—
but froze.
His palms.
There were tiny, cross-shaped cuts scattered across them. Horrifying, unnatural—yet there was no blood. No pain. And the cuts looked… already healed.
“What the hell…?”
He lifted his feet.
More cross marks. Small. Precise. As if carved with intention.
His heartbeat thundered in his chest.
He rushed to the mirror, heart in his throat.
Completely bare, he scanned his body—his smooth, flawless skin… until he saw it.
A pitch-black, upside-down cross burned into the center of his chest.
Not drawn.
Not inked.
Not bleeding.
It looked fused to his skin.
Permanent.
Living.
“When… did this appear?” he whispered, breath trembling. “What did they do to me last night?”
A cold sensation crawled up his spine.
Something was inside him.
Something wrong.
Something that wasn’t there before.
And it was waking up.
- Writer
