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Chapter 66
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2024-12-28 12:00:02Masahiro’s pacing had worn an invisible path into the living room floor. The clock ticked too loudly, and the silence between him and Matthew grew heavier with each minute.
"Any harder and you’ll stomp right through," Matthew said, lounging on the couch. His tone was playful, but his eyes followed Masahiro’s movements with interest.
Masahiro ignored him. The doorbell rang, and he practically sprinted to answer it. He pulled the door open to reveal Yumi, standing there with a bag slung over her shoulder and an expression caught somewhere between worry and confusion.
"Masahiro," she greeted, stepping inside. Her gaze landed briefly on Matthew, who gave her a lazy wave from the couch.
"What’s going on?" she asked, shifting her attention back to Masahiro. "You sounded urgent on the phone."
"Just check on him," Masahiro said briskly, gesturing toward Matthew.
"Check for what, exactly?" Yumi frowned, approaching
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Gold & Sand Chapter 67
Masahiro sat stiffly in the hospital waiting room, his eyes flicking occasionally toward Matthew, who was lounging casually in the chair beside him. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound, punctuated by the occasional cough or shuffle of paper from the front desk."Why do you look so serious?" Matthew asked, his voice cutting through the silence, a teasing smile on his lips.Masahiro shot him a sidelong glance. "Because I’m getting this damn cast off. Finally."Matthew raised an eyebrow. "You're sure you don’t want to keep it for a little longer? You know, for the sympathy points.""I don’t need sympathy," Masahiro grunted, his expression tightening. "I just need this to be over with."A nurse called Masahiro's name, and the two stood up in unison. Matthew slung a lazy arm around Masahiro's shoulders as they followed the nurse down the corridor. Masahiro tried to ignore the smirk on Matthew's face as he walked, but the fami
Last Updated : 2024-12-28Gold & Sand Chapter 68
"Well, well, well, look who's back on his feet," Lewis said with a grin, leaning against the doorframe. "Thought you were six feet under, Payne."Masahiro’s expression didn’t shift, his cold, stoic demeanor as unbothered as ever. "Not today, Lewis," he replied flatly, his voice steady. "We’ve come to talk to Jones about something that happened yesterday."Lewis raised an eyebrow, glancing between Masahiro and Matthew, who gave him a smile in return. "Oh? Is this about Rocco’s death?" he asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.Masahiro shook his head. "No. Matthew's the next target."Lewis’s face dropped. "What do you mean?"Matthew sighed, the playful gleam in his blue eyes fading as he shifted his stance. "When I got back from here yesterday, I almost had a car accident."Masahiro’s voice was matter-of-fact, cutting through the tension. "Wasn't an accident. The mafia’s trying to kill him."Matthew shot him a pointed look, but the se
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Masahiro pushed open the heavy door of the surveillance control room, its creaking hinges echoing in the sterile, fluorescent-lit space. The walls were lined with monitors, each screen flickering to life with the cold glow of different camera feeds scattered throughout the precinct. The air was thick with tension, underscored by the low hum of machinery.“Sorry, I’m a little bit late,” Masahiro said, his voice steady, even as his heart raced with the gravity of the case they were tackling.Inside, he found Lewis hunched over a screen, scrutinizing hours of footage. A technician sat beside him, fingers deftly gliding over buttons, bringing different angles of Rocco’s cell into focus.“It’s okay,” Lewis replied, not bothering to look up, his eyes fixated on a grainy image.The rivalry still simmered between them, but necessity dictated their cooperation. They knew the stakes were high, and bickering would yield nothing.“So… did we get something?” Ma
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Masahiro stepped out of the police station, his mind racing with the implications of what he had just learned. Nicholas Murray was the first person he needed to see… an assistant in the kitchen on the night of Rocco’s murder. He had to get answers, even if it meant confronting the weight of suspicions looming over everyone involved in the case.The drive to Nicholas's home was quick, but the tension in the air was notable. Every turn seemed to hide an unseen threat, a feeling that only intensified as Masahiro parked outside Nicholas’s modest house. He took a deep breath, needing a moment of clarity before moving forward.He knocked firmly on the door, and the silence that followed seemed to stretch on. Moments later, the door opened, and Nicholas stood in the doorway, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looked up at the visitor.
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Masahiro opened the door to his apartment, exhaustion settling into his bones. The night had been a blur of interviews, dead ends, and mounting frustration. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and found Matthew sitting on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV. The low hum of the television filled the room, but it was clear Matthew wasn’t paying much attention to it."You’re still awake?" Masahiro asked, his voice rough from the long day.Matthew glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow. "You look like shit. What’s wrong now?"Masahiro let out a sharp breath, his shoulders sagging as he tossed his jacket onto the chair. "We’re not any closer to solving Rocco’s death. We’ve got a bigger mess now."Matthew turned down the volume of the TV, his gaze sharpening with interest. "What happened?"Masahiro ran a hand through his hair, pacing slightly as he talked. "Someone infiltrated the police station. Used Charles&
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Masahiro stepped out of the steamy bathroom, his body glistening with moisture, the scent of lavender and mint lingering on his skin. He had just finished a relaxing bath, his mind at ease as he padded across the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. His toned, muscular physique was on full display, the pale skin of his chest and arms contrasting with the dark fabric of the towel. As he reached the other side of the room, he noticed Matthew laying on the bed, his attention fixed on his phone.Matthew looked up from his screen, his eyes at the sight of Masahiro. He couldn't help but admire his physique, the way his broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist. Masahiro's hair, still damp from the bath, fell in messy strands around his face, giving him a wild, untamed look. Matthew casually averted his gaze.Masahiro tossed the towel onto a nearby chair an
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Masahiro sat at the edge of the cluttered table, staring down at the map that had consumed weeks of his life. Lines, symbols, and marks swirled in front of his eyes like a chaotic mess, leading them to dead ends. Every lead they had chased down in Cleveland led nowhere, or worse, to random locations that had nothing to do with Mr. K."Another waste of time," Masahiro muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.Lewis, seated next to him, furrowed his brow as he sifted through another set of potential coordinates. “We’re missing something,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Nothing adds up. It’s like the map is purposely designed to mess with us.”Masahiro could sense the weight on Lewis too, but the pressure wasn’t going to get them anywhere. The two had been at this for days, and every route they mapped had collapsed.“Anyway… what if those symbols aren’t random places? What
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The moonlight streamed through the blinds, casting faint patterns across the floor as Masahiro sat on the edge of the bed, his head buried in his hands. The map was burned into his mind, every twisted symbol, every seemingly random line. No matter how many angles he considered, it didn’t add up. How could a public venue, one used by government officials, be connected to Mr. K’s underworld?The bed shifted slightly as Matthew sat down beside him, silent at first. He reached out, placing a hand on Masahiro’s back, a rare gesture of comfort. "Still stuck on that map?"Masahiro sighed, lifting his head. "I just can’t wrap my head around it. It doesn’t make sense. Why would the map lead to a public building? How could someone like Mr. K be tied to something so... visible?"Matthew leaned back, arms crossed as he considered Masahiro’s frustration. His gaze was sharp, filled with that quiet wisdom he’d gained from a lifetime na
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Clark stepped out of the bathroom, hair still damp, glasses fogging slightly as he adjusted them with one hand. A loose t-shirt clung to his frame, baggy pajama pants hanging low on his hips, flip flops slapping lightly against the hardwood as he moved.The scent hit him before he reached the living room—rosemary, garlic, a hint of something sweet. His stomach, traitorous as ever, growled on cue.Adam was at the stove, shirtless, a tea towel slung over his shoulder. The muscles in his back shifted with each movement, smooth and effortless as he stirred something in a pan.Clark hovered at the edge of the room. “You cook like that and still act surprised people want to fuck you.”Adam didn’t turn. “You flirt like that and still wonder why you end up bruised.”Clark smirked, stepping further in. “Touché.”Adam plated without a word, setting two dishes on the table like it was routine. Like they weren’t still bruised from each other in all the wrong ways.Clark raised an eyebrow. “Settin
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The low hum of the television filled the living room. Adam sat sprawled on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, remote balanced loosely in his hand. Some news anchor droned on about the latest scandal, but Adam barely glanced at the screen. The sunlight filtering through the windows cast a warm glow over the space, though the tension clinging to the room remained as cold as ever.Clark stood near the kitchen counter, arms crossed, his fingers drumming impatiently against his elbow. He was still in yesterday’s clothes—the wrinkled shirt barely buttoned, the trousers creased from hours spent tangled in bed. He’d rolled up the sleeves at some point, exposing pale forearms that still bore faint impressions of Adam’s grip. Every mark, every ache, gnawed at him."I need to go home," Clark said flatly.Adam didn’t even flinch. His eyes remained on the screen, the glow of the TV reflecting faintly against his dark skin. "No."Clark's jaw clenched. "I wasn’t as
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The clock crawled past noon.Clark slouched on the leather couch, whiskey in hand. The ice had melted. He didn’t care. His shirt stuck to his skin, wrinkled and loose from the night before. He hadn’t changed. Hadn’t showered. The bruises on his neck were impossible to ignore. Dark splotches, some shaped like teeth. Others like fingers. A goddamn masterpiece, signed in pain.Adam, though? He looked like he’d just stepped out of a cologne advertising.Shirtless. Loose sweatpants slung low. Muscles on full display, carved deep beneath dark skin. The light caught every scar, every ripple. And those hands — Clark’s gaze kept catching on them. Rough, wide-knuckled, capable of wrecking anything. He knew that better than anyone now.The worst part? Adam wasn’t even trying.He moved through the kitchen like he owned the air. Coffee in one hand, the other lazily resting on the counter. Like nothing happened. Like Clark’s body wasn’t still a battlefield."You act like n
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The air between them was suffocating.Clark’s eyes flashed, his bare chest still heaving as he jerked the sheets higher, though there was little point. The bruises were already visible—dark purple splotches along his neck, across his chest, down his sides. Some shaped like teeth. Others like fingers. He felt every mark. Every ache. And the soreness that ran deeper than his skin."You—" Clark’s voice cracked, still rough from sleep, from the night before. He swallowed. "You took advantage of me."Adam stood at the edge of the bed, already tugging his sweatpants back on. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just pulled the waistband up with that same brute force that lingered in Clark’s bones."I'm just as horrified as you are," Adam muttered, his voice low, stripped of anything that resembled guilt. "I’m making breakfast.""Breakfast?" Clark's laugh was sharp. "You think I care about breakfast? You think eggs and coffee are going to make me forget that you—" His hand flew to the side of his
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Adam woke to the sound of his phone vibrating.The dull hum buzzed somewhere on the nightstand, insistent and unforgiving. He ignored it at first, the weight of exhaustion still heavy. His body ached. Not the usual ache—not from fights or workouts or even a bad mattress. This was different. Deep. Lingering. And the sheets tangled around his legs, damp with sweat and something else —something worse. Then it hit him.Clark.Barely covered. Skin marred with darkened bruises and red marks that Adam’s hands—his hands—had left behind. The bite marks at the base of Clark’s neck. The faint outline of teeth against pale skin. The way his chest rose and fell, lips parted, a mess of tangled blond hair sprawled over the pillow. He looked ruined.Adam swallowed hard.`What the fuck did I do?’The memories clawed back like a slow burn. The rough kisses. The bruising grip. Clark’s gasping, stuttering pleas. The bed creaking beneath the relentle
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The second bottle was already half empty.Clark’s glass dangled loosely between his fingers, half-forgotten. The amber burn had long since softened to something gentler. Warmer. It dulled the edges, smoothed out the cracks. But the fire inside him? That wasn’t from the scotch.It was from Adam.Barefoot, loose sweatpants slung low... he sprawled across the couch, the muscles in his chest and arms carved deep beneath dark skin. The light brown of his eyes gleamed under the dim lamplight, their sharpness dulled only slightly by the alcohol. Every now and then, Adam’s hand curled lazily around his glass, swirling the drink, his fingers broad and rough. Unbothered. Unapologetically masculine.And Clark? Clark was eating him alive.He wasn’t hiding it anymore.Why should he? The flush on his cheeks wasn’t just from the alcohol. The way his eyes lingered a second too long, traced the line of Adam’s collarbone, the slope of his shoulders—none of it was subtle. And A
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Clark’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, vibrating against the glass. He glanced at the screen, Masahiro flashing in bold letters.He sighed, snatching it up. “Masahiro.”“Clark.” Masahiro’s voice was clipped, but not tense. “Good. You’re alive.”“Is that disappointment I hear?” Clark’s tone was effortlessly dry. “Or were you hoping I’d leave you with one less headache?”“We went to your place. It was empty.”“Yes, I’m aware. That’s generally the goal when one isn’t home.”“We heard about the gunfire.” Masahiro ignored the jab. “You alright?”Clark adjusted his glasses with precise, deliberate finesse. “Charmed, as always.”“And where are you?”Clark hesitated. He could practically hear the judgment loading.“Adam’s.”A pause. Just long enough to register the surprise without voicing it.“Of course you are.” Masahiro’s voice was too level. “And this decision was made with the full clarity of your legal genius?”“Obviously. Nothing
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Smoke still clung to Clark’s jacket like a ghost he couldn’t shake. He’d barely had time to process the ambush—just flashes of gunfire, Adam shoving him down, the brutal jolt of the car door slamming shut. Now they were speeding down a back road, the city lights thinning behind them.Clark stared out the window, heart still jackhammering under his ribs. Asphalt blurred under the tires. The direction felt wrong.“This isn’t the hotel district,” he said, adjusting his glasses with clipped precision. “Where are we going?”Adam didn’t look at him. His grip on the wheel was tight, jaw clenched. “My place.”Clark blinked. “Your what?”“My place,” Adam repeated. “We’re layin’ low.”Clark snapped his head toward him. “Since when is your house suddenly the panic room? Take me to a hotel.”Adam exhaled, sharp and irritated. “A hotel ain’t safe.”“And your place is?”“Yeah.”Clark scoffed. “That a joke? What’s next, you gonna tuck me in with a loaded Glo
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The door clicked shut behind them, soft but final.Clark was the first to move, striding across the room and dropping his file folder onto the table like it had offended him. He didn’t take off his coat. Didn’t loosen his tie. Just leaned forward, both palms on the table, head low.The air felt like it hadn’t been breathed in properly for hours.Masahiro stood near the wall, arms folded, expression unreadable as always. His coat was still buttoned, not a hair out of place, voice low and clipped.“You did well,” he said.Clark didn’t lift his head. “They were the ones who did well.”“Don’t be modest. You controlled the tempo from the moment you stood up,” Masahiro added, voice firm. “Even she couldn’t shake the narrative.”Clark finally straightened. Adjusted his glasses. “She’ll try harder on monday.”“And you’ll handle it,” Masahiro replied simply. “You’re still one of the best in Middlesbrough, whether you’re spiraling or not.”From the corner,
