CAR 28

Let there be bright light.

The person watching the rape from the attic murmured. As if they had touched the joints in the ceiling, a couple of gas lamps used for lighting tilted at the same time. The stage brightness instantly dimmed because the lamps went out. Dennis stared blankly up at the light fixture that was about to crash into his face and slowly closed his eyes.

And then, a blackout.

Dennis Kahler thought that perhaps he might be dead. He was on the unlucky side. All sorts of misfortune always hovered by his side. It sometimes felt as if it were opening its giant maw to size up Dennis’s length.

In other words, a much larger misfortune was waiting for the right time to prey on him.

Something damp dripped onto Dennis’s forehead with a splat. Dennis slowly opened his eyes to the lukewarm sensation flowing down from his slanted forehead bone to the crown of his head.

Due to the stage being much darker than before, he couldn’t see Vittorio’s face properly. However, he could clearly feel Vittorio’s ragged breath on his forehead. As if he had received some strong impact, Vittorio was lying on top of Dennis’s body, catching his breath. Vittorio’s eyes were completely bloodshot.

The light fixture had fallen, aiming precisely for Dennis’s head.

Vittorio, who had pulled the defenseless Dennis into an embrace as if to shield him, had taken the blow instead. With shards hitting his back and the back of his head respectively, Vittorio let out a rare groan. Forcibly putting strength into the two arms that supported his massive body, he repeatedly clenched and unclenched his hands.

The blood flowing down Vittorio’s forehead and temples was quickly drenching Dennis as well. Vittorio, who habitually tried to tilt his neck back, furrowed his brow in pain. His two water-colored eyes glistened.

Dennis looked up at the attic once more. The culprit who had dropped the gas lamps on them was still leaning on the railing in a leisurely posture. Dennis squinted his eyes.

At that moment, Vittorio snatched away Dennis’s line of sight. Grasping Dennis’s chin, he murmured in a vaguely malicious tone.

“I’m the one who got hit.”

“…”

“So why are you the one who’s spaced out?”

Dennis suddenly looked down at their joined parts. Vittorio still had his cock pushed into him. It seemed he had no intention of ending this act despite the ‘accidental incident.’

If that weren’t the case, there would be no reason for him to adjust his position. Vittorio lifted Dennis’s two legs and made them wrap around his waist, then straightened his spine.

He was groaning more from the shards digging into his back than from the pleasure of intercourse. Every time Vittorio twisted his whole body, the remnants of the shattered gas lamps fell like scales onto the stage. It was as if witnessing the shedding of a reptile’s skin.

Vittorio, who had awakened after a long shedding, fumbled at the nape of his own neck. The palm he soon showed Dennis was entirely dark red. The wound seemed deep. However, Vittorio smiled with a face mixed with sweat and blood.

“You were hoping, weren’t you? For me to stop.”

As if to say ‘not a chance,’ he wiped his palm on Dennis’s flat lower abdomen. Soon, he gripped Dennis’s thighs fiercely and began to move in and out again. As if driving a pillar into a hole that didn’t fit well, his member recklessly tore through Dennis’s sensitive areas.

Vittorio gradually began to stagger.

He groaned, pressing a hand to his handsome forehead. The people’s étoile, with gas lamp fragments embedded in his shoulder blades and back, was ultimately unable to perform intercourse or the show. Ordinarily.

But Vittorio was not a man to whom common sense applied, and he seemed determined to fulfill his duty in his act with Dennis, no matter what.

After a few thrusts, Vittorio spat out a curse. He seemed to realize that he could never finish. His slick cock finally slid out of Dennis.

Staggering, Vittorio collapsed heavily onto Dennis’s thin body. It was a body as huge as an old tree. Crushed beneath him, Dennis couldn’t even breathe properly for a while.

“…Dennis.”

“…”

“Don’t you dare fuck around with any other bastard but me…”

In truth, the most harmful and threatening being to Dennis was him.

Yan Richter was an ordinary teacher like Dennis, but his and Dennis’s statuses were different from the start.

A school wielded by royalty, a trap set by royalty, a mad royal who hunted the prey himself as if bored even by the time a field mouse spent observing the trap. All of it was a metaphor for Vittorio Bonaparte.

“Every day, and every day again… I will be checking your asshole.”

Vittorio smiled and pushed himself up. He staggered for a while like a drunkard. After smacking his own forehead hard a couple of times, Vittorio gradually approached the curtain.

Surely…

Dennis reached an arm out to him. But what he caught was not Vittorio’s ankle, but empty air. Dennis’s vision became completely blurry. Vittorio pulled the long rope connected to the curtain. It slowly spread to the left and right, revealing the reality of the stage in its entirety.

The audience, confronted with the tragic scene, let out screams.

And for good reason—Vittorio’s entire body, on which the gas lamp lighting had crashed, was soaked in blood. The remnants of the gas lamps that had shattered onto the stage glittered like salt.

Dennis lay there like a corpse with his lower half exposed, and Vittorio stood a step ahead, as if introducing him. Vittorio swept his long arm through the air once. With his other hand on his chest, he bent his knees elegantly.

Startled by the bizarre sight, a few audience members rose from their seats. The Guitry and Volé students, who had been looking up eagerly at the front curtain that was rarely opened, were also at a loss for words.

Guitry, who had been about to order the younger students to clean up the stage, hurriedly stopped them when he saw the shards scattered on the floor.

As if he didn’t care about shards and the like, Vittorio was walking off the stage, trampling all over the remnants with his bare feet. Vittorio suddenly turned back and looked at the center of the stage. He slowly took in the sight of Dennis staring up at the second-floor attic in a daze.

“Ah…”

Vittorio murmured as if in admiration.

I like it. In this moment, he was an outstanding director.

The stage lights flickered off. As the long curtain once again blocked the stage from the audience, Dennis also gradually pushed himself up. He touched his own face. Had he been crying? Only now did he realize that the corners of his eyes were damp and wet.

Guitry was preoccupied with controlling the chaos that had spread through the audience, and the students couldn’t bring themselves to readily come and clean up the stage. His lower body, which had been relentlessly pierced, trembled just from putting his feet on the floor.

His thighs ached so terribly. Dennis, staggering like a newborn foal, barely managed to lean against a wall. The students who had been staring at Dennis like he was an oddity quickly averted their gazes when their eyes met his.

Supporting his body with his trembling legs, Dennis went backstage. On the floor there lay a pair of tattered pants, as if they had already been trampled by many. Even bending over to pick them up felt shameful. Dennis, who had been catching his breath while leaning his upper body against the barre, suddenly looked in the mirror.

His appearance was no different from Vittorio’s. His eyes were wet with blood and sweat. His lips, bitten and messy throughout the act, were noticeable. Every spot where Vittorio had put his mouth was reddish, as if he had been poisoned by metal. On his lower abdomen was the massive handprint of Vittorio. It was like a brand seared with a hot iron.

A clear mark that he was nothing more than Vittorio’s plaything. Feeling this, Dennis shuddered all over.

Dennis slammed his fist into the mirror. A crack formed in the massive mirror that covered one wall. He didn’t care about the threatening fissure. He struck the mirror until his anger was spent. The pain in the side of his hand was nothing compared to the one-sided sex.

No. In truth, it wasn’t even sex. It was just a starting point for frightening, breaking, and dominating Dennis. He wasn’t foolish enough not to understand the intention.

Dennis laughed as if he had lost his mind. It felt as if that man’s thing was still lingering somewhere in his lower abdomen. If he could, he wanted to tear out everything inside his stomach.

“…Sir!”

Dennis turned around. Fucking Laurent Lemaitre was standing there.

Is it Laurent’s ghost? Or is it Sami?

It was hard to tell them apart in the dark place. Dennis, frowning, just glared at him for a while. Despite Dennis’s cold stare, the man did not leave his side.

The man hurriedly took off his jacket. It was an overcoat of not very good quality. Sami, who draped it around Dennis, was aghast as he looked down at his hand. Dennis’s right hand, with glass fragments embedded in several places, was a gruesome sight.

“Why…”

“…”

“Are you hurting yourself?”

Dennis suddenly looked at the mirror. In the cracks of the mirror, which had split into many lines, stood a half-naked man. Unable to even look at Sami directly, Dennis barely managed to gaze at him through the mirror.

“I never have.”

“…Pardon?”

“I’m always the one being hurt.”

“…”

“I’d rather ruin myself with my own hands.”

Sami carefully pulled Dennis into an embrace.

🩰

Originally, Sami was a man far removed from the arts.

It was better to get a meal than to buy a ticket. Even a nice change of clothes to wear to the theater was a luxury. His life was solely a battle against hunger. What if he had been adopted into a better family?

At times, he would be captured by such meaningless what-ifs. For example, when he received a letter from his twin brother, Laurent Lemaitre.

Unlike Sami, Laurent had been adopted into the Lemaitre family and had taken countless liberal arts classes in the arts, he said. After devoting himself to ballet, in which he showed the most promise, he had entered the prestigious Volé Dance Academy three years ago.

Sami was as excited by Laurent’s achievements as if they were his own. Volé was a solemn place where even blood relatives could not be casually invited, but the regular performances held from time to time were an exception. The previous year, he had been busy with work and had politely declined Laurent’s invitation, but this year, he finally had the time.

Laurent always encouraged Sami to have a life where art coexisted. “Keep the theater close, and don’t be so caught up in filling your stomach,” was his long-standing mantra.

However, Laurent did not know Sami’s world. A life of going to work with gutter rats and enduring tedious labor and persecution. The desperate world of the lower class, where every moment was valued in wages, was something Laurent Lemaitre, the adopted son of a quasi-baron and a ballet prodigy, would never know.

In reality, he would never come to know of Sami’s life. That was the first thought Sami mulled over when he heard of Laurent’s death. Due to his brother’s death, Sami was now even more unable to approach Laurent Lemaitre’s life. Because compared to heaven, the ground Sami stood on was a fucking low place.