Chapter 14: Scar

His fingertip brushed the skin and found the uneven texture of a long, narrow scar.

Eoin quietly drew his hand back. He waited until Cian was sound asleep, then traced the scar along his spine. But even after reaching deep inside Cian’s pyjamas, he still couldn’t find where it ended.

The scar was extraordinarily long.

Eoin’s fingertips trembled slightly. He silently switched on the bedside lamp, knelt on the bed, and lifted a corner of Cian’s pyjama top.

In the warm golden glow of the lamp, Cian’s back came into clear view.

The young master’s back had a graceful curve, his skin glowing with a soft, silky sheen. Yet that silken canvas was marred by a web of scars. Whip marks, burns, even knife wounds crisscrossed it.

They were years old and had faded, stretched by new flesh, forming patches of dark brown and pink that lingered like stains and cracks on silk.

Eoin stared at them in silence, his thoughts unspoken.

How could Cian carry marks like these?

Cian was the young master of the Fitzgerald family, a nobleman used to dining on black truffle and caviar, decked out in Vacheron Constantin and Patek Philippe. How could a man raised in such opulence bear scars like these?

Eoin quietly lifted the pyjama top higher, exposing more skin. He adjusted the angle of the light and leaned down to examine the scars.

With his pharmacology background and the research that came with it, Eoin could roughly date them to more than ten years ago.

Ten years ago, Cian had been only a child.

The hotel lamp gave off a dim light that blurred the shadows of the scars. Eoin frowned and leaned in closer.

In an instant, his wrist was seized.

Eoin’s fingertips jerked.

Cian caught him, rolled over, and lazily opened his eyes. "What are you doing?"

Still drunk, his voice was thick with sleep.

Eoin hesitated. "Getting water."

Cian pulled his pyjamas down and chuckled. "Getting water? Why lift my top for that?"

Eoin said, "My hand brushed against it when I reached over."

Mr. Brennan was far too aloof to be stripping someone’s clothes in the middle of the night, so Cian suspected nothing. He lay flat on the bed and made room, grumbling, "Getting water in the middle of the night. Go on, then."

Eoin slowly got out of bed, pretended to pour water, took a couple of sips, and climbed back in. Cian wrapped a long arm around him, trapping him like a big pillow, his chin rubbing against the top of Eoin’s head. "Go to sleep, you’ve got class tomorrow."

The night passed without dreams.

The next day, perhaps because he had gone to bed early the night before, Cian woke to find Eoin still there, sitting at the desk flicking through documents.

*

Cian sat up halfway, surprised. "Don’t you have a morning lecture?"

Every other time he’d woken, Eoin had been gone.

Eoin closed the book. "Not much this morning. I’ve set out breakfast. Want some?"

He slid the breakfast tray across. It came from the hotel, with an assortment of pastries laid out on a snow white plate. Cian gave him a suspicious look and got up to change, thinking, Has Eoin lost his mind?

Being so polite to him so early in the morning.

But the next second Eoin suddenly stood, the mattress dipping slightly as he sat down beside Cian, took the clothes, and laid them over his shoulders. "Let me help you get dressed."

Cian: "?"

His suspicion grew. He eyed Eoin closely, his gaze probing. Eoin calmly held the clothes and let himself be examined, though his eyes were lowered, avoiding direct contact.

Cian said, "Do you want something from me?"

He propped his chin on his hand. "Spit it out. What’s going on at the hospital? Speak up, and if you beg nicely a few times I might be in a good mood and consider helping."

Eoin shook his head and said it was nothing, but his gaze lingered on Cian’s back, well covered by the pyjamas, the scars hidden beneath the fabric.

Eoin said, "It’s part of the agreement, so I ought to be doing this."

Cian was sure something was fishy. In the novel and in reality alike, when had they ever strictly followed the agreement? The young master did everything on a whim, and Eoin was cold as ice and had never given the original Cian a single friendly look. Yet now he was volunteering to help him dress?

He fidgeted uncomfortably with his collar and got out of bed to wash, the silk falling down to cover his back completely. "I don’t need it. Finish your breakfast and get back to your experiments. Stay on campus today. I’ve something to do later."

Cian did indeed have something to do. Dr. Keane had already lined up a solicitor and finalised the donation plan for Glenmore Psychiatric Hospital, and was waiting for Cian to sign.

They arranged to meet in the hotel conference room. Keane brought a hefty stack of contracts, with the solicitor alongside. Cian flipped through them casually and signed.

He signed with a flourish, his handwriting sharp and bold, full of confidence.

Keane was taken aback, his face full of disapproval. "You’re not even going to read it? Cian, you’re far too trusting like this."

Cian chuckled. "I trust you."

Many characters in the novel world mirrored people from real life, like his father and Declan. Keane felt familiar to him, very much like his uncle in the real world. They hadn’t talked much, but whenever something happened, his uncle had always sided with him unconditionally.

After he put his signature on the stack, the funds would be transferred to the hospital’s account by the next working day. Cian capped the pen and asked the solicitor offhandedly, "Do you have any contacts for selling luxury goods? I’ve some cars and watches I want to sell."

The solicitor, who served a wealthy clientele, was no stranger to down and out rich kids selling off their luxuries.

Keane was momentarily taken aback. "Selling luxury goods?"

Cian smiled. "Putting a bit of money aside for later."

He took a business card for a pre owned luxury dealer from the law firm, made the necessary arrangements, and went back to the hotel to sort out his finances.

The original Cian owned a place in Dublin, but he’d been living in the hotel long term, only going home when Declan came back from business trips and explicitly ordered him to. The luxury goods were all in the hotel wardrobe.

The system hovered beside him, watching him pack up various luxury watches, curious. "Why are you suddenly getting rid of all this?"

Cian said, "I won’t be around here much longer."

In the novel, Eoin had already been hospitalised several times by this point and needed antidepressants to get by. The first half of the story had played out, and the remaining plot was speeding up, with two months left to wrap things up.

Declan had given him six months to invest. In the novel, the original Cian squandered everything within three months, and Declan, furious, sent him abroad.

Cian, however, hadn’t squandered anything. He had given the psychiatric hospital a complete upgrade, hardware and software alike, instructed Keane to replace all the ward mattresses, and was now waiting for Eoin to lock him away, to kick back and enjoy his retirement in comfort.

It wouldn’t be hard for Declan to trace where the money had gone. He’d know within a month at the latest, and he’d also discover that Cian had already signed a watertight agreement and the money was in the hospital’s account, unrecoverable. By then Declan would be even angrier than in the novel and would send his son abroad even sooner.

Cian discussed it with the system. "Once I’m abroad, Declan will definitely make my life hell, control my living expenses, and try to force me back to apologise. But I’ll never apologise. I’d rather starve than apologise to him. Besides, I still want to travel."

The system was stunned. "Travel?"

Cian smiled. "Since I’m a rich heir and finally have some spare cash, why not go and see the aurora, penguins, and polar bears? I could visit the moai on Easter Island too."

He said wistfully, "Once I’m back in my own world, I won’t have this much money or free time."

The system looked at him, hesitated, and finally said tactfully, "It’s not out of the question."

Turning a mission into a holiday. Classic him.

Once abroad, Cian would fade into the background. That stretch of time would be entirely his to do as he pleased. The original host had struggled in poverty under Declan’s control, barely making ends meet, but Cian could prepare in advance and save up a fund.

Cian daydreamed about this life and felt rather chuffed. As he flipped through the original’s luxury goods to estimate their value, the total quickly hit two million and was climbing towards five. But as he carried on, a plain kraft paper bag, neatly sealed with glue, suddenly fell out from among the pile of luxurious gift boxes with gold logos.

Cian hesitated, then picked up the bag.

It was a small, unremarkable paper bag, the sort you’d get forty of for a tenner in a stationery shop, and it had been carefully stored among the luxury items without a single corner creased.

The system hovered closer. "What’s this? Why is it here?"

Cian gave it a squeeze but didn’t open it. Instead he put it back, saying, "Not selling this. We’ll hang on to it."

The system raised an eyebrow. "You didn’t even open it, and you’re not selling it?" It eyed him suspiciously. "Do you know what’s inside?"

Because of the mapping between reality and the novel, Cian knew many background details that the system didn’t.

He wasn’t about to explain. He carefully stowed the kraft paper bag and said, "Get the second hand dealer on the line."

The system huffed but dutifully dialled. The phone screen lit up silently and the number was entered automatically.

Before it could finish, a sharp ringtone cut through. Cian glanced at the screen. Darragh.

He answered, and Darragh’s voice came through, hard to hear clearly amid the noise around him.

Darragh said, "Hey, Young Fitzgerald, got something to tell you. Rory beat someone up last night and put Sinéad in hospital."

Cian paused and asked, "He got into a fight, so why’s that my problem? Didn’t he use money to settle it?"

Darragh sighed. "The issue isn’t just the fight. It’s that he did it in public, and it was filmed and posted online. Now it’s under investigation. Rory doesn’t want a criminal record, so he offered a sum for a private settlement, but Sinéad isn’t happy with the amount and won’t budge. Old Rory thought he’d find someone who knows both parties to mediate and see if they can come to an agreement."

Cian scoffed. "If she’s not satisfied, offer more money. Is the Doyle family short of cash?"

Darragh replied, "He’s keeping it from his family, or his old man will give him a bollocking and freeze his credit card. He wants to handle it himself. Anyway, not many people know both Rory and Sinéad. Just you, me, and Eoin. I’ve tried mediating but it didn’t work. Why not bring Eoin along and see if you can talk her round?"

Cian answered perfunctorily, "Fine, fine, sure."

Inwardly he thought it served Rory right. He’d disliked him for a long time, but the original Cian was a loyal rich heir, and now that Darragh had asked, he really had to go.

He sent Eoin a message asking him to come over, then drove straight to the hospital.

Sinéad’s room was on the third floor in the private wing. Cian went up and saw Darragh in the distance, sitting in a daze by the door.

Cian asked, "Where’s Rory?"

Darragh said, "In the cells."

Cian said nothing.

He said, "Sinéad’s inside, is she? I’ll go and talk to her."

Cian pushed open the door, determined to say a few perfunctory words, sit around to waste some time, and then tell Rory, "Can’t convince her, can’t budge her, better get the money ready." But just as he stepped in, Eoin arrived.

Mr. Brennan had hurried over from college, walking briskly, his forehead covered in sweat. He hadn’t even taken off his white lab coat, and its hem fluttered as he walked, giving off a cool, almost ascetic air.

Seeing Darragh guarding the door, he stiffened, his voice tight with barely concealed nerves. "Who’s in hospital?"

Cian gave the room number but didn’t tell him what had happened.

Darragh was stunned. "Sinéad’s in hospital. Eoin, did you run here?"

Eoin’s white coat was blown into disarray and his hair was slightly messy. His handsome brows were furrowed and his face showed a hint of worry, and the sweat on it caught the fluorescent light with an almost crystalline sheen.

Darragh gave him a puzzled look. "Wait, Eoin, even if Cian were the one in hospital, why would you run?"

Eoin’s steps faltered.