CHAPTER 5: Mirror of the Dead

The silence was louder than any scream.

The room was too perfect. White walls, polished wood floors, velvet curtains drawn back to reveal the night-lit skyline of Bangkok. The kind of view people killed for. The kind of silence people went mad in.

Milo sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, fingers gripping the mattress so tightly his knuckles were white. He could still feel Win’s hands on his skin—where they’d pressed too hard, where they hadn’t cared if it hurt.

He was dressed now. Or trying to be. The silk shirt clung to him like a second layer of shame. The collar itched against his throat where Win had bitten him last night. Marked him.

Branded him.

He heard the soft clink of glass behind him. Win pouring himself another drink. Probably the third tonight. He never drank to numb the pain—Win liked to feel everything. The alcohol just made his words more cruel.

“You shouldn’t wear white,” Win said, voice too calm.

Milo didn’t turn. “What?”

Win walked forward slowly. “You shouldn’t wear her color. It doesn’t suit you.”

Milo’s stomach twisted. “It’s just a shirt—”

Win’s glass slammed down on the nightstand. “It was her color.”

The air thickened instantly.

Milo dared to meet his gaze. That was the mistake.

Win's expression shifted, like a storm crashing over his face. “Why do you have her face?” he whispered. “Why do you get to walk around with her face… when she’s six feet underground?”

Milo swallowed hard, throat raw. “Because she was my sister.”

“No,” Win hissed. “She was light. You’re nothing but shadow.”

He was closer now, the heat of his fury pressing into Milo’s skin. He cupped Milo’s jaw suddenly, too tightly, nails biting into skin.

“I hate looking at you.”

“Then don’t,” Milo whispered.

Win's laugh was soft—almost broken. “But I can’t. That’s the sick part. Every time I look at you, I see her. And every time you speak… I remember why she’s gone.”

His hand slid down Milo’s throat. Not choking. Not yet.

Just threatening.

Milo didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“You think I wanted to marry you?” Win sneered. “You think I wanted this? You think I don’t wake up every night wishing it was her in my bed, smiling, alive—not you, moaning like a whore while I use your body just to forget what I’ve lost?”

Milo’s breath caught.

“Then why did you do it?” he asked hoarsely. “Why bring me here? Why marry me?”

Win leaned closer. “So I could destroy you, Milo. Slowly. So I could make you feel every ounce of what I feel. You took her from me. Now I’ll take you from you.”

And then, without warning, Win shoved him back on the bed.

Milo yelped, hitting the pillows. Before he could react, Win climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pressing down hard enough to bruise.

“Win—wait—” Milo gasped, trying to push at his chest.

“Don’t say my name,” Win snapped, grabbing both of Milo’s wrists and slamming them into the headboard. His grip was vice-like, bruising again over already broken skin.

“Stop—please, not again—” Milo struggled, panic rising in his throat.

“I told you,” Win whispered, lowering his mouth to Milo’s ear. “This is what you deserve.”

Later, the room smelled like sweat, sex, and blood.

Milo lay limp beneath him, shirt torn open, chest heaving. The bruises on his hips were deepening, fresh bite marks blooming along his collarbone like poisonous flowers.

Win stood beside the bed, buttoning up his shirt like nothing happened.

Milo didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

He just turned his face to the wall, blinking through the haze, hoping the silence would swallow him whole.

But Win wasn’t done.

“You know what the worst part is?” he said casually. “When you cry out… sometimes you sound just like her.”

Milo’s stomach twisted violently.

He curled in on himself, hands clutching the sheets, wishing they’d smother him.

“I should cut your hair,” Win continued thoughtfully. “She always wore hers long. Maybe if I shaved yours off, I wouldn’t keep mistaking you for her.”

Milo’s voice came out hoarse. “You’re sick.”

“No,” Win said, sipping from his glass. “I’m grieving.”

He tossed the drink back and walked to the dresser. A photo frame caught his eye—one he didn’t remember placing there.

He picked it up.

It was old. Faded. A picture of three children: Win, Milo, and Mimi.

All laughing.

All smiling.

It hit like a knife to the gut.

Mimi’s smile. Her hand gripping Win’s arm.

Milo standing beside them—same face, different soul.

Win’s hand trembled.

Then he hurled the frame across the room.