Chapter 373: Blood on His Gloves
Earlier that night:
The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor hummed faintly, casting their glow on polished white tiles. Dr. Silas Durant tugged at the cuff of his coat, smoothing out an invisible crease, before sliding his phone out of his pocket. The screen lit up with a familiar name. He hesitated only long enough to slide on his black leather gloves before answering.
"Mother," he said flatly.
"Son..." Luna Francis’s voice was heard, full of indulgence. "Your cousins are in town. Do be a dear and take them out?"
Silas’s movement in hanging his white coat on the rack froze for a brief second before he replied icily. "I’m not their babysitter."
"I know, dear. But just this time? You don’t want to repay their kindness like that, do you?" Luna Francis coaxed.
Silas’s gaze shifted to the wide hospital window, where the moon hung sharp and cold in the night sky. He flexed his fingers inside his gloves, the leather creaking softly. "Fine."
"Wonderful. I’ll send you their hotel address." Her voice brightened before she ended the call.
Silas slipped his phone back into his pocket. A faint scowl crept across his lips. His mother... she knew him too well to make such a careless request. He despised unnecessary social contact, especially with women. His cousins knew his boundaries. And yet, here she was, parading him into a public scene.
His gloved fingers tightened on the coat sleeve. They wanted to muddy the water. They wanted to show him in a different light. Girlfriends. Companions. A smiling Durant heir, how quaint.
Straightening his tie with a precise tug, Silas adjusted his posture and strode out of the hospital.
Dinner was chosen on his cousins’ whims. A busy commercial street lined with neon lights and chatter. He accompanied them with an expression that hovered between disinterest and detached. He neither smiled nor frowned. He didn’t need to act for Monica and Natasha. They knew him too well to mistake politeness for warmth.
"Brother Silas, what’s going on down there?" Monica craned her neck and asked, pointing to the gathering crowd.
"Is that a fight?" Natasha added.
Silas turned his head in boredom, eyes sweeping lazily over the forming crowd. Then a silver glint caught his eye.
Silver hair.
Well, the fool had found his stage. He recognised Micah at a glance. He was the one who ruined his carefully laid plan, who had dared interfere and let the dark-haired one escape his grasp. And now, drunk, staggering, throwing sloppy punches in the middle of the street. Utter trash.
"Oh God! Look!" Monica leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. "Even drunk, that handsome guy’s moves are not a joke."
"Yeah. He looks so frail and thin, but he’s holding his ground." Natasha chimed in, fascinated for a moment.
Silas allowed himself a second glance; his face betrayed nothing. The young man’s leg arched beautifully, his kick landing with more grace than force. His hair fell across his flushed forehead as he swayed, but still, he struck back. He absorbed blow after blow without breaking, eyes burning, even his body faltered.
Then the stick landed, brutal and sudden. Micah buckled, no longer a fighter but a punching bag. Fists and boots descended, and still, he made no sound. No crying. No begging. Only silence.
The fire in his eyes never flickered.
Being tossed aside like garbage, Micah instead of wailing, chuckled.
The sound cut through the crowd and landed on his ears.
Silas’s pupils constricted. He chuckled while broken. Hm..
The young man had a quality worth noting.
His cousins had already turned away, lost all interest in Micah the moment he fell. But Silas thought that moment was the highlight of the show. His hand twitched at his sides.
Yet, he thought this result was inevitable.
Silas passed by the young man, ready to put the incident in the back of his mind. Then he caught sight of blood on Micah’s lips. His gaze lingered. He watched the smear of red as Micah’s fingers brushed across his mouth. That dazzling redness against the pale skin stirred something in him.
He could have walked away. He should have. But instead, his long strides carried him closer until he stood before the boy.
Micah sat slumped against a wall, his chest rising in shallow breaths, his hand sticky with blood. His hazel eyes were unfocused, his face pale.
Silas just stared at him. Micah sensed him and tilted his head.
Silas waited, anticipating recognition, perhaps fear. He was after all no friend of Micah’s. Seeing him here in his most vulnerable moment should make the boy tremble.
His impression of the boy until tonight was a person who was overbearing with the weak and a skittish cat with powerful people.
Yet, Micah smiled instead. "Good, you’re here," he said, voice scratchy.
Silas leaned forward, blocking the boy’s view of the street. He didn’t speak. Just waiting. Observing.
"Did you... Get a haircut?" Micah’s eyes narrowed, trying to focus. "You used to keep it long."
That remark made Silas pause. "Did I?" he asked coldly.
"Mm..." Micah smiled faintly, eyes half-shut.
"Do you know who I am?" Silas asked, interest piqued.
"Yeah." Micah opened his eyes. "Mr Hotshot."
His gloves creaked as his fingers curled into a fist. "Name."
"Silas..." Micah whispered, barely audible.
Silas tilted his head. At first, he assumed the boy was hallucinating, correctly delirious, and mistook him with someone else.
But he recognised him?
Silas didn’t dwell on it. He straightened, ready to call an ambulance and end this distraction. But a sudden weight clamped onto his leg.
Micah’s bloodied hand.
The muscle under his touch tensed, every nerve in his body was ready to feel the disgust, loathing the touch. Yet, the wave of revulsion he expected never came. Instead, there was only the heat of Micah’s palm, damp and trembling.
"It hurts. Help me." Micah whined.
Silas’s eyes lowered to the hand clinging to him. The crimson smeared across his trousers made his chest constrict, not in disgust, but in something stranger. Something he couldn’t name.
"You don’t like me anymore?" Micah’s words were childlike, mournful.
Silas spoke. "I’ll call an ambulance. You need to go to the hospital."
"No," the boy hissed, clinging forward in pain. "Don’t leave me."
Behind him, Monica’s voice rang out. "Is he that bad?"
"Yeah. I take him for treatment." Silas replied, his back on them, concealing Micah’s hand on his leg.
"Alright. We’ll catch a movie then."
The cousins drifted off without a second glance.
Silas crouched down, his leather-gloved hand catching Micah’s chin. He tilted his head upward, forcing the boy’s bloodied face into view. "You are playing a dangerous game," Silas murmured. "The boy who recoiled from my touch in the hospital now clings to me? Which one is the act?"
Of course, Silas had realised the boy had an aversion to him the moment he saw him at the hospital for the first time. Now this transition, calling him Hotshot, seemed intriguing.
Could someone change this drastically?
Micah blinked slowly. "What game? I just want to go home."
"Give me your phone. I’ll call them."
Micah hesitated, confused. "Call who? I just want to sleep in our bed. Eat your special chicken soup."
For the first time that night, Silas’s composure cracked. His grip on Micah’s chin tightened, making the boy flinch.
"Ow... ow... it hurts."
Silas released him with a controlled exhale, his gloved fingers brushing down his coat. He searched Micah’s pockets with swift motions. There was no phone. No wallet. Nothing.
"Ah, it’s ticklish..." Micah mumbled weakly.
Silas’s expression became more unreadable. He rose, intent on ending this charade, but Micah’s sudden strength surprised him. The boy seized his wrist, yanking him down with startling force.
"Don’t go..."
The unexpected immense touch made him freeze, and yet his body didn’t react. And when Micah’s frail body slumped forward, his cheek pressing against Silas’s chest, his limbs went rigid, but his stomach didn’t churn. His throat didn’t close.
And then Micah went limp, losing consciousness completely.
Silas sat there for a long moment, his black gloved hand pressing into the wrinkled fabric.
Finally, he moved, supporting Micah’s body with careful, almost reluctant arms and threw him into his car. He brought him to his home instead.
In the quiet sterility of his apartment, under harsh white light, Silas worked. He cleaned Micah’s wounds, inserted an infusion, and laid him neatly on the bed. Yet even as he adjusted the drip, his gaze kept wandering to the boy’s pale face.
A mystery. A puzzle. Something new.
Silas wiped his gloves clean, his reflection sharp in the dark windowpane. Then he reached for the landline. His mobile phone was blocked, but this... this would get through.
Darcy picked up.
The boy did not believe him at first. But Silas offered calmly, "You can call him yourself and see if he answers," There was silence. Then hurried footsteps.
By the time Silas replaced the receiver, he already knew. Darcy would rush to his apartment. And so he waited.