It appeared Devon Zhang knew quite a bit about the Original Owner's authentic thoughts and motivations. Marcus could only respond with an awkward, placating laugh and vague deflection: "Hey, you know... circumstances change. People evolve. I'm... I'm planning to settle down now. Reform my ways."
At that precise mont, the tattoo removal specialist approached carrying an ominous-looking instrunt that resembled a dental drill but with far more complex attachnts and modifications. The machine emitted a deep, chanical humming sound that vibrated through the air with almost predatory nace.
Observing this developnt, Devon imdiately shifted his position to achieve optimal viewing angle—settling in like soone preparing to watch premium entertainnt—though his mouth never stopped running:
"If you ask , Miss Nightshade is genuinely flawless. Absolutely stunning appearance, seems to have a gentle, sweet personality, and her family background is obviously exceptional... tsk tsk, it's just unfortunate about those legs... alas, it's truly a classic case of heaven envying beauty! Just like the Venus de Milo missing her arms, you see? The more perfect sothing is, the more the universe insists on introducing so flaw to balance things out. Isn't that the way of the world?"
Marcus listened to this philosophical rambling with a mixture of amusent and exasperation, completely unable to comprehend how Devon had managed to connect ancient Greek sculpture to Elena Nightshade's current circumstances. The logical leap was genuinely impressive in its absurdity.
However, he had to grudgingly admit that Elena did indeed deserve the description "flawed beauty" in the most literal sense.
Though her physique remained sowhat thin and underdeveloped due to her leg condition and young age, her face and snow-white skin were genuinely divine gifts—so exquisitely refined that you couldn't identify a single aesthetic flaw even under intense scrutiny.
Before Marcus could pursue that thought further, the tattoo artist had already begun applying cold coupling gel across his back. That ominous humming sound drew steadily closer, vibrating against his exposed skin.
Marcus drew a deep, bracing breath, closed his eyes, and ntally prepared himself to experience the legendary "hundred ants devouring the heart" sensation that tattoo removal supposedly generated.
Hearing Devon's casual assessnt of Elena as "simple and kind-hearted," Marcus felt waves of indescribable absurdity crash through his consciousness.
But externally, he could only play along with the conversation, forcing out a theatrical sigh as he responded to Devon: "When you put it that way... I really do feel sorry for her." This statent contained approximately half truth and half strategic fabrication—there might indeed be a trace of genuine pity sowhere in the mix, but far stronger was his anxiety about his own increasingly precarious situation.
Seeing that Marcus had apparently "gotten the ssage," Devon imdiately dropped into a crouch, leaning even closer with the posture of a concerned best friend preparing to deliver crucial wisdom. He lowered his voice to continue his well-intentioned but misguided "counseling":
"Exactly! But let tell you sothing, brother—if you flip your perspective, having disabled legs might not actually be such a terrible thing. Think about it logically. It ans she doesn't have the ntal energy or physical capability to go out gallivanting around, getting into trouble. Way better than your ex-girlfriend situation! Plus, Elena Nightshade genuinely seems innocent—doesn't have any malicious sches or hidden agendas lurking beneath that sweet exterior."
...Ex-girlfriend? Cuckolded?
Marcus's heart perford an uncomfortable skip. He imdiately began frantically searching through the fragntary mories inherited from the Original Owner, hunting for context.
Ah. So the Original had experienced that particular brand of "tragic romantic history." No wonder he'd been so desperately eager to secure a wealthier "next prospect"—the motivation undoubtedly included substantial components of revenge psychology and burning need to prove his worth.
Noticing Marcus's sudden silence, Devon apparently assud he'd accidentally triggered painful mories. He clapped a sympathetic hand on Marcus's shoulder, tone shifting to genuine comfort:
"Look, man, I'm just hoping you can finally move past all that trauma. Before, when your girlfriend ran off with that other guy, you rushed into this marriage almost out of spite—we were all seriously worried about you, bro. But now, seeing how much you obviously care about Miss Nightshade, it seems like... maybe that wound in your heart isn't hurting quite so much anymore? Right?"
At this point, Marcus's brows had knotted themselves into a tight, frustrated tangle. What a complete ss! The Original Owner's interpersonal relationships and romantic history were an absolute tangled disaster, impossibly complicated and deeply embarrassing.
Even the tattoo artist holding the laser equipnt had beco so engrossed in this unfolding soap opera that his eyes—visible above his dical mask—radiated both sympathy and obvious entertainnt-value appreciation. He'd completely forgotten to actually begin the procedure, too captivated by the drama.
Marcus felt his cheeks burning—partly from genuine embarrassnt, partly from desperate eagerness to escape this situation of being publicly analyzed and dissected like so fascinating psychological specin.
He twisted his head toward the tattoo artist, forcing out a stiff, uncomfortable smile: "Hey, uh... teacher? Should we maybe... get started?"
However, Devon's well-aning "concern" hadn't reached its conclusion. He pressed forward with stubborn persistence: "So seriously though—does your heart still hurt when you think about her?"
The instant the tattoo artist activated the laser equipnt, excruciating pain erupted across Marcus's back as the focused light began burning away ink embedded deep in his dermal tissue. He could no longer maintain any pretense of stoic composure and cried out in genuine agony: "OWW—! Oh god, it hurts so much!!!"
He felt as though his entire back was being simultaneously pierced by countless red-hot needles heated to maximum temperature, or as if thousands upon thousands of fire ants were frantically devouring his flesh in coordinated assault.
What five-star reviews?! Those were definitely paid fake testimonials! Marcus was on the verge of actual tears, his fingers gripping the bed's edge with such desperate force that veins bulged prominently across the backs of his hands, tendons standing out in sharp relief.
Devon observed Marcus's pain-contorted expression but completely misinterpreted the cause. He released a long, understanding sigh and spoke in a tone that scread "I totally get what you're going through":
"Look at you—just ntioning her na makes your face flush bright red with emotion. You're in absolute agony right now but you're still thinking about her, aren't you? That's true love right there, brother."
Marcus forced words out through gritted teeth, each syllable requiring enormous effort: "I wasn't... thinking about her! It's the tattoo removal... it hurts... SO DAMN MUCH!"
Devon gave him a suprely confident "stop being stubborn" expression and delivered a heavy-handed pat to his shoulder—which naturally caused Marcus to grimace in renewed pain: "Dude, I know you way too well! You can't fool with that tough-guy act!"
He spoke with absolute conviction, as though he'd grasped so fundantal universal truth: "Actually, Miss Nightshade really is genuinely wonderful—well-behaved, kind-hearted, sweet-natured..."
Well-behaved? Kind-hearted?
Marcus's internal monologue was screaming. If you wanted to identify who in this entire novel possessed the darkest heart and most ruthless thods, Elena Nightshade would claim that crown without question. Nobody else even ca close!
Her acting skills were genuinely masterful—especially when performing for outsiders like Devon Zhang!
In Devon's perception, the Original Owner Marcus had actively pursued Elena, scheming and manipulating to climb into her social sphere and secure that advantageous marriage.
But the actual truth was...
Marcus's mind involuntarily flashed back to the Original Owner's mories of that fateful "first encounter":
The weather had been perfect that day—bright sunshine, pleasant temperature. The Original Owner had been jogging through the public park when he'd suddenly heard a muffled thud followed by a young woman's panicked cry for help echoing from behind an artificial hill: "Help! Soone, please!"
He'd jogged around the landscaping feature to investigate and discovered a girl wearing a pristine white dress sprawled awkwardly on the ground in obvious distress. Her wheelchair lay overturned several feet away, wheels still spinning uselessly in the air, generating pathetic creaking sounds.
The girl had lifted her head, revealing a face that could lt hearts—eyes red and wet with unshed tears, expression radiating vulnerable helplessness. She'd pointed with trembling fingers toward the distant wheelchair, voice small and frightened as she pleaded:
"M-mister? Could you... could you please help ?"
The Original Owner had helped her back into the wheelchair, and she'd thanked him with shy gratitude, cheeks flushing with becoming color. Just as he'd been preparing to leave and continue his run, an incredibly luxurious Rolls-Royce—complete with that iconic starlight headliner interior!—had pulled up with perfect timing, stopping directly in front of him...
From that mont forward, the Original Owner had fallen into the trap so "naturally" and "voluntarily," carefully forging a fake identity and approaching step by thodical step.
He'd believed himself to be the predator successfully landing a golden ticket. He'd had no idea he was actually the stupid fish that had been precisely baited and had willingly swallowed the hook.
Elena Nightshade, oh Elena. Simple? Innocent?
Marcus smiled bitterly through the intense burning pain radiating across his back.
Everyone had been completely fooled by her seemingly pure, naive, harmless exterior presentation! This was no delicate white lotus flower at all. She was clearly a ruthless black datura—a poisonous bloom that devoured people completely without spitting out so much as a bone fragnt!
The thought of the Original Owner's tragic final fate—dismbered, weighted down, dumped into the ocean to be consud by fish—and the realization that Marcus himself would soon be facing that identical destiny... it sent visceral chills racing up his spine like ice water injected directly into his nervous system. He broke out in instant cold sweat, drenching his clothing, and even the searing pain across his back felt like a rehearsal for future tornts yet to co.
After hastily completing the tattoo removal procedure—enduring what felt like hours but was probably only forty-five minutes of concentrated agony—Marcus adhered firmly to his self-imposed requirents for being a "model husband" (good to his wife, returns ho promptly, attentive to her needs). He was absolutely determined to head straight back to the villa.
Devon scolded him extensively for being an ungrateful friend who prioritized won over brotherhood, but Marcus simply deflected with vague promises: "There's plenty of ti ahead—we'll definitely et up again soon, I promise." His mind had already departed, flying ahead toward that dangerous place he was obligated to call "ho."
Having successfully removed the majority of that nacing scorpion tattoo, Marcus felt his psychological burden lighten considerably. He couldn't wait to return and "demonstrate" the results to Elena Nightshade, hoping desperately that this visible sacrifice might salvage at least a few precious Positive Value points from the wreckage of their relationship.
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