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"Is he going to be okay?"

Tristan closed the door behind him as he reentered the room and pulled his gloves on. His eyes flickered to hers at her question. "Physically, yes," he confirmed sternly. "You don't have to worry about him, my dear. This kind of thing happens often."

Physically...? She was sitting on a stool next to the unconscious white-haired male. Kieran was swathed with pillows and blankets and there was a cooling pad on his forehead. His face still looked unusually pink and sweat beaded on his skin before rolling down his neck.

"What does he usually do when this happens?" She decided to ask. "I've never seen him like this before."

"It'd not usually this bad," Tristan agreed with a sigh. He took a seat on a stool beside her and rested his elbow on the table. "As for what he does...it's better you don't know. He'll be fine. Let him rest."

She waited for him to elaborate but he didn't say anything else. She turned her attention back to the sleeping male, a stitch of worry pulling her eyebrows together in apprehension. The lost look on his face and hollowness in his eyes she'd seen just moments before—she recognized that look. It was the same look she had. It was the look of someone hurting.

Under her pretense of being strong-willed and unfaltering despite Jaehyun's pressuring, (Y/n) felt like she was about to crumble at any moment. As she sat in the cage all she could think about was the man in white and all those lost children crammed into one tiny cage with her. The ones that were there longest all had dull, colorless orbs. They were like dolls, almost. Living dolls. Every day the ones that just arrived would live in fear that they'd be next. That they'd become nothing but hollow husks for the men in white to cut open and put back together.

(Y/n) was one of the luckier ones. She survived the Bellua Project. But the scars would never fade, especially the ones that were carved into her mind like stitches.

She never really remembered the man in white's face but seeing Jaehyun's crazed expression smiling back at her through the bars...bits and pieces of her muddle memory seemed to come together and form a face. A blurred face that greatly resembled Jaehyun's.

Bile had risen up her throat and she wanted to puke. To scream, cry, run—anything. But she couldn't. All of a sudden she was back in The Cage from nearly a decade ago. Surrounded by broken bodies, beeping heart monitors, and lines of men in white who file into the dirty space just to grab another child when the one they were currently using died.

Even now she kept hiding and choking down her feelings. She covered up all her wounds with bandages, applying new ones when they fell off. It was a miracle she was able to continue looking at Jaehyun's face without her fear getting the best of her.

Though she had to remember: too many storms could burst any dam.

Tristan watched her with an unreadable expression on his face before he cleared his throat to break the silence and turned to the door. "You need to return to your room," he informed the (h/c)-haired girl, his expression pinched. "I have things to attend to and I need to leave, but I can not do so until you're there. Fujikawa will be fine."

She tore her eyes away from her hands and nodded mutely. His eyebrows lifted at how strangely obedient she was being. Suspicion drew his expression into a frown but he didn't comment on her behavior. Maybe it's just shock, he reasoned. Or is she's really planning something, he'd just have to wait and see.

Whatever she was up to, she would fail in the end. There is no game Tristan cannot win.

His mind was heavy with stress and doubt as he escorted her back to her room, the entire journey quiet. No one had the heart to speak. His heart only sunk more as he secured both locks on the door. It wasn't just because of what he just saw—well, that too. Kieran was always better with words and manipulating people's hearts to his favor. People naturally drifted towards him under the pull of his seductive, sugar-coated words that promised nothing but lies and half-truths. Tristan was more direct and cutting with his words, manipulating the mind rather than the heart.

He didn't care if others preferred Kieran over him, but when it came to the (h/c)-haired girl...he definitely cared. A bit too much, he had to admit. And he hated it at first.

But no, it wasn't just that. It was what he had to do now. He was stalling too much ever since (Y/n) first arrived at the manor. It wasn't like him, not seizing the chance to carry out his plans. Perhaps...was a small part of him still longing for his father's approval?

That was impossible. The Tristan who still craved for his parent's love and affection was dead. He has been dead since he was five. He's long discarded emotions and chose to cage them in a locked vault inside his heart, even though now it seems a certain someone's dragged them out of him.

Pain. Frustration. Hate. Anger. Irritation. Sorrow. Joy. Envy.

Love.

Would they make him stronger or weaker? He didn't know. He would only find out once he starts this endless cycle of damnation. Patricide is a sin, they say. Murder is a crime. It would've been fine if it was the old Tristan that was more machine than human. Laws of society did not apply to nonhumans.

He was human now. And anything he did now would make him fall deeper and deeper into the hole he dug himself.

How far would he fall?

He'd just have to see when his father's blood was on his hands.

TEMPUS:DORM ━━━━━༻ ❀ ༺━━━━━ ℓαtєя

Leon was pissed.

"Pissed" wasn't a good word to describe what he was feeling. It was more like a I-want-to-snap-someone's-neck-in-half kind of feeling. First of all, why was he made the one to take care of that a**hole Kieran? Just because he was good at taking care of Conan when he got sick didn't mean he'd do it for alcoholic f*ckboys that annoyed the sh*t out of him.

His "care" consisted of him slapping a wet cloth on Kieran's forehead, suffocating him with heavy blankets, and then calling it a day. If Tristan expected five-star quality care from Leon, he'd have to pay the big bucks or be willing to owe him a big favor. Nurse someone he'd rather have dead back to health for free? Hilarious. He was tempted to smother the white-haired male with a pillow on multiple occasions.

He also may or may not have "accidentally" pushed Kieran off the bed many times.

Leon reached up and began using the exercise bar in Tristan's training room to do chin-ups. The black-haired male never installed a gym for himself; he didn'd find it necessary. Dumbbells and a long run through the surrounding woods would be enough for him.

But today, he wanted something different. The repetitive act of straining his arm muscles to pull his large frame up countless times grounded him. The sore numbness in his body, the breathlessness in his chest, and the harsh strain of his muscles in his arms as they began to tear calmed him down. The more he did, the more he pushed his body to its limits, the better it was. It was his way of punishing himself—he should've done better.

His mind sharpened around the growing tightness in his chest. One thing was certain; he refused to let (Y/n) out of his sight again. He'd been too lenient. He had to remember she wasn't like Conan, who was troublesome at times but otherwise obedient. She was brought up with proper supervision and constantly surrounded by danger and bad people. Like that one girl. Leon was beginning to forget her face. All he remembered was a blurry female he'd pushed off the roof of the school building and made it look like an accident.

Well, whoever she was, she was a bad influence on the (h/c)-haired girl. It was good he got rid of her.

After ten more sets of chin-ups, he finally released the bar and let himself drop down onto his feet. There was an angry red welt across his hand where the bar had bitten into it. His other hand was wrapped with bandages, the white slowly staining red where his wound reopened. Perhaps he shouldn't have pushed himself so hard today. But in his defense, he had forgotten about the wound.

He quickly cleaned off the bar that he'd touched; there was a hint of red on the silver and he knew Tristan despised dirty things. Only when he was done did it attend to his wound. He sat down by the rack of dumbbells and unwrapped his hand, revealing a long, red slash across his palm. He crumpled the bandages into a ball and threw it into the trashcad. Then he quickly rinsed it under the sink and rewrapped it with bandages he found in the first aid kit.

Leon opened and closed his hand to test it. The skin around wound pulled a little and the bandages felt tight, but it would do for now. It was a flesh wound anyway, and it would heal. It was his fault he received it in the first place—he hadn't been careful when confronting Jaehyun earlier today about (Y/n)'s location and grabbed the boy's knife by the blade instead of the handle.

It was another scar to add to the map of them on his back. Another mistake to add to the list of those he carved into his mind.

Speaking of mistakes, Leon was beginning to really hate himself for letting it slip to Kieran (Y/n) might be on Jaehyun's floor. After the black-haired male had wrestled the knife away from the blond and left, the flirtatious male had come knocking to ask where she was. His methods included a lot of provoking that made Leon lose his calm and say the words Kieran wanted to hear.

Next time he'd hit and then hear what Kieran had to say. Not that he would be able to with a broken jaw.

His attention was diverted away from his now bandaged hand as the door opened. It was Tristan. The blue-haired male had an unusually anxious look on his face as he closed the door. Then he changed his mind and left it have open. He remained near the doorway as if ready to leave even though he just came in. Leon frowned. Something was up.

"Matthews," the other boy began, his eyes flickering to Leon's hand for a split second before looking away. "Do you know where Kim is?"

Leon was confused. Why would Tristan come to him to ask about something like that?

"Probably in his room," he answered curtly. He didn't ask questions. Perhaps that was why Tristan didn't mind working with him.

"I see..." Tristan's eyes roamed through the exercise room even though it was his, and he should be familar with it. Leon caught the fleeting look of worry that flitted past Tristan's face like a shadow before it disappeared and the male's face hardened.

Suddenly he realized what Tristan was about to do. Leon began to rise to his feet but the blue-haired male held out a hand, stopping him.

"I want to do this alone," Tristan told him. "I appreciate your concern, but I can handle this by myself. The preparations have been done for a quite a few days now."

Leon slowly sat back down. "...I wasn't concerned."

His eyes widened in shock as a small smile appeared on Tristan's face. "Yeah," the other male breathed. "I know."

And then he was gone.

He returned back to his room with a storm of questions and confusions following him. Conan looked up at his brother's entrance. "B-big brother!" He quickly rubbed the chocolate from his mouth and hid his chocolate-coated fingered behind his hand, as if he was a thief caught red-handed. "U-um, welcome back!"

The little boy blinked in relief and bewilderment when his brother barely looked at him, much less scold him for eating too much sweets without his permission. "Big brother?" Conan ran to the bathroom to quickly rinse his face and hands off before running back to the tall male's side. Leon collapsed backwards onto the bed, the mattressing dipping under his weight.

Conan shook his brother's arm worriedly. "Are you tired?" He asked in a little voice. "What happened? If this is about the toys I forgot to clean up yesterday, I swear I won't do it again!"

Leon finally looked at him. He lowered his arm that was covering his eyes and chuckled, reaching over to gently cuff the boy's head. "You better. But I'm fine. Don't worry about me—have you eaten yet?"

"Yup! And I ate all my vegetables."

"Good." Leon pushed himself to a sitting position. "You can't grow if you don't eat well."

"Oh! I almost forgot!" Conan ran into the other room. Leon could hear the sound of something falling and a surprised yelp of a dog. Then the boy returned with a dog bowl full of dog food with Tristan 2.0 circling around his feet. Leon blinked in surprise. What was it doing here instead of with (Y/n)? Was she not a dog person?

Back in her room, (Y/n) sneezed. Is someone talking about me? Also, where did Tristan 2.0 go?

The fluffy Samoyed barked happily and practically knocked Conan over as she flew towards the bowl and dug her snout into it. "I've been taking good care of Tristan 2.0 lately," the boy informed his brother sternly. "Reallll good care. I never forget to walk her and give her food and water." A sly look settled onto his face. "Sooo, big brother, don't you think I'm ready to get my own pet dragon?"

Leon bit back a grin and pretended to seriously consider the request. "Hmm...dragons are hard to take care of. And a lot of responsibility..."

"That's okay!" Conan pulled out a DVD disk from the shelf and brandished it to the male proudly. "I rewatched all the seasons of How to Train Your Dragon four times already! I even have my li...li...lions?"

"Licence," Leon corrected him with a smile.

"Yeah, that whatchamacallit! I got it in Dragon Trainer Camp last year!"

At Conan's pleading look and puppy dog eyes, he couldn't exactly say no. "So you're experienced. Maybe once you're my height, or the dragon will see you as its snack."

"I'm not food," the boy scowled, crossing his arms. "My dragon will be a good boy. He won't eat me! Right, Tristan 2.0?" He crouched by the canine's side, but she seemed more interested in the food than him. Conan stared at the bowl for a while before his hand flew out and snatched a piece, popping it into his mouth.

He made a face. "I've had better and I've had worse."

"What did I say about eating things you're not supposed to, Connie?" Leon said with a tired sigh. "Did you swallow it?"

Conan looked up at his brother with wide, innocent eyes. "Aren't you supposed to swallow food? How else am I going to grow taller? Don't be picky, big brother!"

That earned him a solid whack on the head.

"OWWW!" Conan yelled, holding his head as he tumbled backward, even though he wasn't even hit that hard. "That was mean, brother! I'm telling on you!"

"And to who? Nana and Baba's not here."

"Tristan 2.0, brother's bullying me!" Crocodile tears spilled down the little boy's cheeks. "Avenge me, my good sir! I'll pay you in robux!"

Conan was laughing, whining, playing, and lively. But he wasn't always that way. When their mother first died, the boy barely spoke a word. Not even to his brother who established himself as his guardian. He refused to eat even though he wasn't a picky eater and often cried himself to sleep. Leon was good at helping his mother with his younger siblings, but he was sorely inexperienced at raising a toddler by himself. He had to learn most of the things the hard way.

But now Leon could confidently say Conan was happy, and it was all thanks to Leon's efforts in protecting him from his father. Now that he'd removed that man from the equation, everything was going to be okay from now on. He has one less thing on his plate to worry about.

There was still (Y/n). He wanted to make her laugh and smile. Even complain—if that was what it took to make her happy. She wouldn't understand his methods right now but in the long run, she would. Conan was able to freely do the things he does because he feels safe under the strength of their brotherly connection. And soon she'd see that and understand.

(Y/n) was a little different, though. She wasn't his sister. He had to admit; at first he saw her as his younger sibling, something to fill the hole Deryn had left when she disappeared, her corpse never to be found. But (Y/n) proved to be so very different from the image Leon had of Deryn if she hadn't been kidnapped and grew up healthily. And he found that he no longer wanted to be just her protector. No longer just someone quietly protecting her from the shadows.

He wanted to be the one by her side. Her safe haven, someone whose arms she'd run into when she needed a hug. Leon didn't know how well he'd be able to fill that role with all his flaws but he'd be damned if he'd surrender her to someone else who could give her what she needed. He wasn't that nice. Neither was he generous.

If that made him animal in his greed, then so be it.

MAIN:HALL ━━━━━༻ ❀ ༺━━━━━ tσρ fℓσσя

How does one kill a man? With a knife, gun, and rope.

What if that man was your neighbor? Start pointing fingers and dig a grave.

But if that man was your friend? Burn the corpse, hide the body.

And if that man was your father...?

Strike while the iron is hot. Be precise, ruthless, and make no mistakes. Tristan would do it the way he always did. Clean and traceless. His father, Stephan Knight, was heartless but not cruel. He did not make Tristan's life terribly harder, only robbed him of his childhood. For that he did not deserve a special death. Death by poison or overdose would be enough for him.

Fortunately for Tristan, he knew exactly what medications his father was on. Ciprofloxacin for his pneumonia and the antipsychotic medication Jaehyun also took, Seroquel. There were so many things he could do with that information; he could name countless foods and drugs from the top of his head that when mixed with either of the two medications, would lead to deadly, sometimes fatal, consequences.

It was an hour past noon. It was his father's lunchtime. Tristan stopped a worker who was about to bring his father food. "Excuse me," he said with a pleasant smile. "May I ask who you're bringing that to?"

The poor woman looked startled at being addressed. The workers that attended to the more elite of the faculty were all told to be neither seen nor heard. And the striking pale eyes and blue hair was a trademark of the Knight family. She didn't know exactly which one of the headmaster's sons this young man was, but she knew he carried the Knight surname.

And that meant danger.

She drew back, fear visible in her eyes. "T-to Mr. Knight, sir," she stammered.

"Oh?" Tristan looked down at the food with disgust. He clenched his hands behind his face. "You're bringing this...slop to my father? Have no one told you my father likes fruit with his food, especially at this time of the day? Or are you suggesting he is undeserving of that?"

The woman's eyes widened visibly and she shook her head rapidly. "I-I do not dare, sir! I will go back right away! M-may I ask what fruit Mr. Knight p-prefers?"

Tristan sighed in exasperation and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do the workers here know nothing? Tell the head chef to work on the management in this place. It's utter trash. Nevermind that, bring him some grapefruit. It helps with his digestion."

"O-of course, sir!"

"No, you fool," he scowled as she began running off with the whole platter. "You'll ruin his food. Leave it here."

"Y-yes, sir!"

He watched as the woman disappeared down the halls. Only when she was gone did he wipe the glare from his face and protrude a little white pill bottle from his pocket. He quickly mixed it into the glass of water. Oxycodone. It goes terribly with Ciprofloxacin. And grapefruit? Taking grapefruit with one pill was like taking twenty pills.

When she returned a few minutes later, looking breathless as if she'd been running, Tristan merely turned a cynical eye on her. "At this rate, it'll be lunch and neither of us will have eaten," he growled. "Hurry along now."

"Understood, sir!"

He watched her leave with a strange hollowness in his chest. Once he was certain she was up the flight of stairs did he follow. And he waited. Watched as the worker entered his father's office to deliver his food. His father definitely has taken his medication at this time, so the food would do its job. He'd be dead before help can reach him.

And the worker? She was unfortunate to be the one who was delivering lunch today. She saw his face. She'd have to go too.

Soon enough, he heard a scream. He didn't need to look into the room to know that his father was probably on his knees. Lightheadedness, drowsiness, vomiting, low blood pressure. It should be obvious never to eat grapefruit with medication. Overdosing on antipsychotics was never pretty.

If Tristan was unlucky, his father would fall into a coma and he'd have to go through the hassle of taking him off his life support. But if he was lucky, his father would die.

"Help!" The woman screamed. She began running out of the office. "The headmaster—he's not—!"

She didn't get very far. Tristan calmly took out his gun, the one he used in emergencies, and shot her straight in her right temple. The woman's face was already fading from his memory as she fell to the ground, dead, her expression one of fear and panic.

A servant poisons the headmaster, Tristan mused as he cleaned the barrel with a handkerchief. And to avenge my father, I killed her on the spot. No, perhaps I should say she killed herself when she heard me coming. Even if someone finds a flaw in my story, money and influence can shut anyone down.

He wiped the entire gun clean, even though he really didn't have to. He was wearing gloves. The gun was a model that could be found anywhere so he didn't have to worry about it or the bullets being traced back to him. Tristan crouched down as close to the dead woman as he dared and picked up her hand with disgust evident in his eyes. Then he placed a few of her fingerprints on the barrel before leaving the gun in her right hand.

He went into the office to confirm his father's death. Sure enough, the man was dead. He was collapsed on the floor with a hand on his neck, the other reaching for the door. Anyone could confuse it as him trying to catch the escaping murderer, the worker.

Tristan stood there in silence for a few moments, his face stony as he gazed down at his father. Stephan Knight had seemed like a man larger than life to the younger him, a person he could never reach but must strive to become. A person that neither loved nor remembered him until Tristan became too much for him to control. And then he began to fear his son.

A cruel smirk crawled onto his face. Satisfaction bloomed in his chest at the sight of the blue-haired man's horrified expression: a gaping mouth and unseeing eyes. His father was lying pitifully on the ground and at his feet. Tristan could easily trample on him like the dirt his father was. Finally, the man that was his biggest thorn in his side was gone.

So why did he still feel so empty?