CHAPTER 102: PSYCHO

Dawin paused, barely. Just long enough for Hades to register it. His blue eyes, usually so composed, held a fleeting spark of genuine surprise, swiftly extinguished. Then, as quickly as it came, his mask was back on. Smooth. Painless. Practiced.

"Hmm... you do know that, too?" Dawin said slowly, his voice almost admiring now, pulling Hades back to the moment. "You always were three steps ahead." His tone, for the first time, held a genuine note of respect.

Still no words from Hades. His silence was its own form of pressure.

"Now, I’m curious. The reason you are here now. Is it for the girl on paper, or the girl fake..." Dawin’s voice trailed off, but the implication hung heavy, pointed directly at Alice’s true identity.

Once again, the tension was there. Intense. Powerful.

And then,

Van strode in, a wide, almost manic grin splitting his face. He looked like he’d just sprinted a marathon to go watch his favorite show, his hair slightly disheveled, a glint of eager mischief in his eyes.

"There you two are!" Van exclaimed, his voice echoing loudly in the quiet hall. He practically bounced towards the table, rubbing his hands together. "Heard you two were in here. What’s going on?" His eyes darted between Hades and Dawin, brimming with anticipation. Then his grin deflated when he saw the stillness.

His face fell.

"Oh. You’re just... chatting?" He looked genuinely disappointed, like a child who’d just been told Christmas was cancelled.

He slumped into a chair, disappointed. Then his tone shifted.

"Hades," Van said, voice louder now. "Why are you just sitting here? Aren’t you going to do something about him trying to steal your woman?"

That word ’your woman’ hung in the air like gunpowder.

"I mean," Van continued, eyes wide, "he was being all lovey-dovey in public! That’s just... so disrespectful. Even I have never spoken more than two words with her..."

Both Hades and Dawin turned their gaze to Van, a unified, silent glare that promised retribution.

But neither said a word. The sheer force of their combined, unblinking stares was enough.

"...Right. I’ll just... pour myself some wine."

He muttered, quickly reaching for a bottle, suddenly very interested in the label.

Hades stood up. Slowly. Pushing the chair back without a sound.

He adjusted the sleeves of his shirt with unnerving calm, then looked directly at Dawin.

"It was nice chatting with you tonight, brother," Hades said.

"Likewise, brother," Dawin replied, standing up slowly.

Hades smirked. "But let’s be clear. You will control yourself." He gave Dawin a pointed look. "Because if anyone messes with my girl, things will get... dangerous."

The words hung in the air like smoke. Not shouted. Not growled. But deadly in their calm.

Van blinked, raising his brows, looking between them with sudden appreciation. "Wow. Look at you two. Who knew you both could be so fun?"

Dawin didn’t respond.

Neither did Hades. He simply turned and walked toward the exit, returning to his block.

And Dawin? He just... smiled. A faint, private smile that revealed nothing, and everything.

When Hades arrived in Block C, he met Milo, who looked visibly relieved to see him returning, looking normal, as he had clearly not gone to spar with the "nation’s husband."

"Boss! You’re back! Everything okay?" Milo asked, his earlier worry giving way to curiosity.

Hades’s gaze was distant, already processing. "Pause on all other information." His voice was low, laced with a new, focused intensity. "For now, all your digging should only be about Dawin. Every detail. Every connection."

Milo raised a questioning brow, clearly puzzled by the sudden shift in priorities. Of course, there were already onto him. But solely focusing on him? That was on another level. "Dawin? But we were just—"

Hades cut him off, his eyes darkening with a sudden, chilling realization. "It seemed we had been looking the wrong direction the entire time." The implication was clear: the true threat, the hidden player, might not be who they had always assumed.

***

Far from the city’s lights, Dawin’s sleek black car pulled up to what looked like an abandoned steelworks compound. The metal gates parted before him without a sound.

Inside, a line of men stood waiting, each dressed in black, their postures straight and alert. No one spoke until Dawin stepped out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes.

"Boss," they greeted in unison, their voices low and reverent, bowing their heads in a synchronized, almost military fashion.

Dawin adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, his expression impassive, a mask of unyielding calm as his eyes scanned the assembled men. "Everything I asked for?" His voice was even, but it held the quiet authority of someone accustomed to absolute obedience.

"Yes, boss," one of the men replied, stepping forward to hand him a tablet.

Dawin took it but didn’t look down at it immediately. Instead, he walked slowly past the line of men, his gaze scrutinizing each face, a silent assessment. His tone, when he finally spoke, was calm but weighted with an undeniable edge.

"I want everything on Hades," Dawin said finally, his voice sharp, cutting through the stagnant air. "Everything."

The leader of the unit gave a short, crisp nod. "Yes, boss."

A few moments later, the same man reappeared from the shadows of the vast compound, gripping the collar of a struggling figure. The man he dragged was a pathetic sight: disheveled, bruised, and clearly terrified, his clothes torn, and a dark, sticky sheen of fresh blood matted in his hair. He whimpered, attempting to pull away, but the grip on him was unyielding.

They stopped a few feet in front of Dawin. The leader didn’t offer an explanation or a name. He simply pushed the trembling man forward and stated, his voice flat, "This is him."

Dawin stepped closer, his impeccably tailored suit seeming almost out of place against the grimy backdrop and the brutalized figure before him. The man on the ground whimpered again, trying to scramble backward, his eyes wide with a desperate, animal fear. "Please, sir! I didn’t mean anything! I swear!" he begged, his voice hoarse.

Dawin didn’t speak. He simply regarded the man with a detached, almost scientific curiosity. Then, with a graceful movement, he bent down and picked up a baseball bat that had been leaning against a rusted pillar. It was a well-used wooden bat, the handle worn smooth from countless swings. He hefted it lightly, testing its weight, his posture still utterly composed.

The first swing was effortless. A sickening thud echoed through the vast space as the bat connected with the man’s leg. A choked cry tore from the victim, who collapsed, writhing on the concrete floor. Dawin watched, his expression unchanged, as if observing a fascinating experiment. He didn’t hurry. He just waited for the man to curl into a fetal position, gasping for air.

Then came the second swing. And the third. Each strike delivered with a controlled, almost rhythmic precision. The man’s cries grew weaker, dissolving into desperate gurgles and whimpers. Blood bloomed on his clothes, mingling with the existing stains.

At one point, as he paused, the bat still held loosely in his hand, Dawin reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, pushing it back smoothly with his fingers, like a stud in a casual photoshoot. His lips stretched into a wide, unburdened smile, and then a rich, free laugh bubbled up from deep within him. It was a laugh utterly devoid of mirth, chilling in its pure, unadulterated joy. He looked like he was genuinely, truly enjoying himself.

The sound, unexpected and strangely beautiful in its raw intensity, echoed off the metal walls, making the silent men in black shift almost imperceptibly. Dawin’s eyes, bright and alive with a terrifying glee, flickered back to the whimpering figure on the ground.

"Let’s try that again, shall we?" he murmured, his voice soft, almost conversational, as he raised the bat once more.