Vernon's Mansion.
Vernon sat motionless at the head of the long dining table.
He stared at the untouched fork in his hand, the sharp tines catching the chandelier light like tiny blades. Steam still rose from the pheasant in slow, mocking curls. His stomach twisted—not with hunger, but with something hollower. He lifted the bite toward his mouth.
The phone vibrated against the polished wood.
He paused.
The screen glowed: Kai.
Vernon set the fork down without tasting a thing.
He answered.
Kai's voice came through clipped and cold, the way it always did when business interrupted breathing.
"Go to Draxton High. Biology teacher—Mr. Ronald Harrington . He posted something online. Anonymous. Mentioned our name. Handle it. Clean. No spectacle if you can manage, but make sure the message sticks. No one says Krossvale above a whisper after today."
Vernon gave a single, almost imperceptible nod, even though Kai couldn't see it.
"Understood."
The line went dead.
He stood. The chair scraped back with a low groan. Mr. Eldrin's face crumpled further, eyes glistening with helpless grief.
Such a poor boy, Mr. Eldrin thought. That monster Kai never gives him a moment's peace. Sent him out last night to slaughter a pack of men, came home drenched in blood and rain, and now—before he's even eaten, before the fever can break—he's being sent again. Another brutal errand. Another piece of his soul carved away.
No wonder he has no appetite. How could he?
Vernon climbed the grand staircase without a word, bare feet silent on marble.
In his bedroom he moved like a living corpse , performing even when he felt like he was going to fall anytime.
He pulled on a long black overcoat— cut sharp at the shoulders, falling almost to mid-calf.
No shirt, no tie, no effort to conceal the feverish sheen already gathering at his temples.He wore loose pleated pants. The fabric clung to his fever-hot skin.
He didn't bother with socks or shoes; he slid his bare feet into polished black leather boots and left.
His head pounded. Vision swam at the edges. Each step sent a dull spike through his temples. His stomach clenched with hunger he refused to acknowledge. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the chills crawling under his skin.
Downstairs, the driver was already waiting beside the matte-black Bentley. Vernon slid into the back seat without greeting.
"Draxton High," he said, voice low and rough. "Now."
The car pulled away smoothly.
Inside the leather cocoon, the fever roared. Heat pulsed behind his eyes, turning the city outside into smears of gray and neon. His stomach clenched and twisted—hunger, yes, but also nausea, the kind that came from a body fighting itself.
He leaned his head against the cool window, eyes half-lidded, coat open over his bare chest, scars glistening with sweat.
Each breath felt shallow, expensive. His head lolled against the seat; the world tilted in slow, sickening waves.
When the car stopped at the academy gates, Vernon stepped out slowly.
The cold February air slapped his burning skin but brought no relief.
The moment his boot touched the gravel, the school seemed to freeze.
Students appeared at every balcony, every window—fourth floor, third, second, first—like birds startled onto perches. Faces pressed to glass. Whispers rippled outward in waves.
"Is that—?"
"Vernon Krossvale—"
"Why is he here?"
"Oh my god—Vernon Krossvale."
"Are we gonna die?"
"Oh god, someone's going to die—"
"Shut up, he'll hear—"
"Someone's fucked up bad."
The fear rolled toward him in waves. He didn't acknowledge it. He simply walked—slow, deliberate steps that echoed too loudly in the suddenly hushed courtyard—toward the main entrance.
Inside, the corridors emptied as if by command. Teachers who glimpsed him through glass doors froze mid-sentence, then retreated. When he pushed open the door to the staff room, every person inside flinched as one.
Silence. Thick. Suffocating.
Vernon's voice cut through it, calm, almost gentle.
"Where is Mr. Ronald?"
A young female teacher—new, probably—actually dropped the stack of papers she was holding. They fluttered like dying birds.
"F-fourth floor," an older man stammered, voice cracking on the number. "Room 412. He—he has a free period right now."
Vernon turned without another word.
He climbed the stairs.
Each step felt like wading through deep water. His head throbbed viciously. His eyesight flickered—objects blurring, then sharpening, then blurring again. Hunger gnawed like teeth in his gut. Every breath came shallow.
The staircase to the fourth floor felt endless. Each step dragged. His boots struck marble like hammer blows inside his own skull. Heat stung his eyes. The fever had climbed to a vicious peak—higher than he could ever remember. His limbs felt leaden yet strangely detached, as though they belonged to someone else. Vision blurred at the edges; the hallway lights smeared into halos. He could barely make out the numbers on the doors. His breathing came ragged, shallow. Every inhale burned.
He was pathetic like this—Vernon Krossvale, the city's quiet nightmare, reduced to a swaying, fever-drunk shadow barely able to keep his balance on the landing. It was because of him . He choosed this for himself . Fever gripped him so hard even though he had one of the best immune system one could have.
And then—
He reached.
Fourth floor.
Long corridor. Empty.
He moved forward—slow, swaying slightly, boots dragging.
Then—
A girl came running from the opposite end.
Full speed.
She didn't see him.
She collided with his chest like a soft missile .
The impact should have barely moved him. But the fever had stripped every ounce of strength; his knees buckled instantly. He went down backward. She followed, momentum carrying her entire body flush against his as they hit the floor.
Her soft curves pressed completely into him—no space, no air between them. Her breasts flattened against the rigid wall of his chest; her stomach molded to his abdomen; her thighs straddled one of his hips. Her palms landed on his bare body exposed out of his coat ,fingers splaying over the blazing heat of his skin.
To her, he felt like a furnace. Skin scorching through the contact. His heart hammering wildly beneath her soft breasts.
To him—
He felt it.
Her curves yielding against his hard planes. Her breath hitching against his sternum—the sudden softness was obscene relief. Her body was cool against his inferno. The gentle weight of her breasts, the press of her hips, the silk of her hair brushing his jaw—it doused the fire just enough to let him breathe. As though she had been sent, specifically, to quiet the burning long enough for him to remember he needs to stay alive.
Ira blinked, dazed. Then awareness crashed in.
She was lying fully on *him*. Vernon Krossvale. The man she had seen that night. The monster from her Portraits. The man who gives her nightmares. The one the whole city whispered about.
Her eyes widened in terror.
The four girls skidded around the corner—Vanessa, Ava, Sophia, Daria—faces flushed with rage.
They froze.
Vanessa's eyes widened.
"Isn't that… Vernon Krossvale?"
Ava's voice cracked. "She fell on *Vernon Krossvale*—"
Sophia whispered, "Shit. She's dead."
Daria backed up. "Run. Before he sees us too."
They turned and fled—heels clattering, voices fading down the stairwell.
Ira scrambled to push herself up. "I—I'm so sorry—" The words tumbled out in a panicked rush.
He saw her,,, he saw her face with a blurry vision.
He recognised her. Even with the blurry vision, fever driven body. He knew she was the girl from that night.
Vernon's hands twitched, instinct driving him to grab her—to hold her there, or pull her closer.
But his arms felt like lead. The fever surged.
Ira pushed against his chest, palms trembling against the hard warmth of him. Her knee slid from his thigh, skirt catching briefly before she freed it. She nearly lost balance, fingers brushing his shoulder for support—then recoiled as if burned. Breath unsteady, she lifted herself .
He tried to rise—muscles locked, then gave out completely . Never in his life did he feel so weak, so helpless.He couldn't get up.
He collapsed back to the cold floor with a low, involuntary sound of frustration.
He lay there, chest heaving,
He could only watch—helpless, burning, aching—as the girl who had accidentally soothed his fire for one fleeting heartbeat ran away from him in raw, animal fear .
To be continued.....