(Warning: usage of the drug …)

A/N: Our mind is a great servant but a terrible master.

Marcus dragged himself out of bed and staggered toward the restroom. A quick shower washed away the sweat clinging to his body, but it did nothing for the unease that coiled within him.

Sleep had already abandoned him, torn away by the nightmare now lingering like smoke in his lungs. Anxiety throbbed in his veins, hollow and suffocating.

This was how it always felt after the dreams—like drowning in his own breath. He knew he could not rest again, yet the hunger for relief gnawed at him.

He wished only to feel numb—or to return, even briefly, to the soft embrace of happier memories.

At last, he moved toward the study tucked inside his room. With a flick of his hand, he slid aside several thick volumes, revealing the hidden vault concealed behind the bookshelves.

Inside it lay only a few items, but most sacred among them was his sister’s journal. Next to it rested a small box—black and gold, etched with the crest of his pack.

He reached for the box, cradling it with a reverence that bordered on guilt.

With a slow lift of the lid, the contents were revealed: cigars, expensive and elegant, their craftsmanship exuding the cool pride of exclusivity.

These were no ordinary cigars; they were crafted specifically for werewolves, filled with a delicate blend of cannabis and wolfsbane leaves.

The M.C. Pharmaceutical Company exported the mixture—a corporation both famed and feared.

It trafficked in medicines, experimental substances, and pleasures of the mind.

The cigars had grown into more than a product. They were a status symbol—objects of luxury that whispered of wealth and sin, from one world into the other.

Ironically, Marcus himself had built a fortune manufacturing them. He was obsessive about their quality, permitting sales only under careful scrutiny to buyers of worth.

Synthetic versions of the drugs found their way into elite clubs, accessible only to the privileged—adult patrons of the most decadent, velvet-shrouded halls.

Among these circles, the infamous drug bore its chosen name: Devil’s Spawn.

He lifted one roll from the box and brought it to his face, inhaling the scent like a vintner testing a rare vintage. Satisfied, he lit the cigar with a gold lighter and drew in a breath.

Smoke filled his lungs, and the intoxication seeped into him like a dark tide. He closed his eyes. Within minutes, the substance was bending his mind into phantoms.

The first vision stirred before him: his sister, Marilyn. She appeared blurred at first, but then sharpened into the tender shape of memory.

He saw her perched gracefully on the bed beside him, her delicate fingers threading through his hair as she once did in his childhood.

The touch fractured something inside him.

"Sister Mary… I am sorry," he whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking. "You must be disappointed in me. But I cannot do this anymore. Olivia… she is innocent. Asher and I—we need her. Please forgive me."

Guilt ravaged his chest as he clasped the illusion of her hand. But the warmth turned to fire as her expression shifted, cold and unyielding.

"Just like Father… you betray me, Marcus," she said, the accusation venom on her lips. "You will forgive them—the ones who took me from you. Are you not my good brother anymore? No… you’ve replaced me. You’ve found her."

Her face glistened with tears. She looked at him as though he were a stranger. Then, with a broken sob, she turned away and leapt through the window.

"No! Sister Mary! No!" Marcus lunged forward, stretching out his trembling hand, but the vision slipped through his fingers. His cry tore through the silence, a howl that dwindled into helpless whimpers.

He collapsed near the window, curling in on himself. His back pressed against the wall beneath the frame while his body sank into the floor. Cross-legged, folded hands on his lap, he seemed a child once more—fragile, abandoned, staring into nothing.

But the drug was merciless, and his mind betrayed him again. A new scene emerged, vivid with color and aching tenderness.
He found himself standing in a meadow awash with golden flowers.

Olivia stood before him, running through the blossoms with all the freedom of a child. Her laughter gilded the air, her smile dazzling as sunlight. Joy radiated from her, innocent and sincere, so unlike the darkness chained inside him.

She was beautiful. Always beautiful.

Yet it was her innocence that left him speechless each time. Rarely did he show her kindness. More often he met her with coldness, sharp words, walls he was unwilling to lower.

But she had persisted—even pouted like a frustrated child that day when he announced they had to leave.

For the briefest instant, recalling that moment summoned a smile to his lips. And then—as if ashamed—he let it fade.

The room around him pitched and spun, his calm dissected by helplessness. He rose slowly, staggering toward his bed, when another shadow materialized before him.

His eyes widened as recognition crashed into him.

"Oli… Olivia… are you truly here?" he gasped, reaching for the figure.

Her voice, when it came, was not the warmth of memory but the scald of betrayal. "Why, Alpha? Why are you so cruel and heartless to me? You slaughtered my loved ones—my husband, my daughter. I loved him… and yet you never hesitated."

Her words clawed into him, but none cut deeper than the three that followed: I love him. His chest ignited, his possessiveness tearing through his intoxication like a storm.

"You want to know why?" he demanded, his tone fractured with rage. "Listen, Olivia. I would cherish you… love you, respect you, as any wolf does his mate. Even if you were born different. But not if you share his blood. Not if you belong to Arthur Hart. You hear me?"

In his delirium, he seized her shoulders—only to realize his fists had gripped a cushion. He jolted it violently, tearing it apart until white cotton burst forth and scattered across the room like snow.

Reality returned in fragments. Breathless, he stared at the chaos around him. The drug’s grip finally relented, leaving him hollow and trembling, his mind exhausted from its own torment.

His body dropped heavily onto the bed, limbs slack, soul frayed. He lay sprawled across the king-sized mattress like a corpse, claimed at last by merciful sleep.