Chapter 71: New Member
The city lights stretched out below Karn’s penthouse like a spilled galaxy, cold and distant through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The grand piano, a sleek obsidian monolith, dominated the space, reflecting the muted gleam. Karn stood near it, silhouetted against the glittering skyline, his posture relaxed but radiating an unnerving focus. Mark stood just inside the doorway, still trembling slightly in the borrowed, ill-fitting sweats Sean’s people had given him upon his release. He looked lost, hollowed out by the jail and the seismic shift in his world.
"Mark," Karn said, his voice calm, conversational, cutting through the thick silence. He didn’t turn around. "You know what to do."
Mark flinched as if struck. His eyes darted to Pete, who stood frozen near the plush cream sofa, Tarn hovering beside him with a watchful, unreadable expression. Silas was already sprawled on the sofa, happily swinging his legs, seemingly oblivious to the tension. Mark’s gaze held Pete’s for a fractured second – a desperate plea, a well of shame – before snapping back to Karn’s rigid back.
A shuddering breath escaped Mark. Then, with jerky, mechanical movements, he peeled off the sweatshirt. It pooled at his feet. The sweatpants followed. He stood naked in the middle of Karn’s immaculate living room, the harsh recessed lights exposing every tremor, every bruise from his ordeal, the stark vulnerability of his exposed skin against the sterile luxury. He didn’t look at anyone. His breathing was loud and ragged in the quiet.
Slowly, deliberately, Mark lowered himself to his hands and knees. The cool marble floor must have been a shock against his bare skin. He crawled forward, his movements stiff and awkward, head bowed low. He didn’t stop until he reached Karn’s polished black shoes. There, he settled back onto his haunches, knees wide apart, exposing himself completely. He placed his hands behind his head, fingers laced tightly, knuckles white. His cock, despite his obvious terror and shame, was fully, rigidly erect. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor between Karn’s feet.
"Thank you for your mercy, Master," Mark whispered, the words barely audible, thick with a mixture of fear and something else Pete couldn’t place. Gratitude? Resignation? It sounded disturbingly genuine.
The city’s cold glow washed over Mark’s hunched form. Karn finally turned, his gaze sweeping over the naked man kneeling rigidly before him – the exposed erection, the bowed head, the hands locked behind the skull. Not a flicker of surprise touched Karn’s face. His voice remained calm, analytical. "You understand your current status, Mark?" He paused, letting the weight of the question settle in the air. "You accept you will behave properly under my direct guidance? No deviations. Absolute compliance."
Mark didn’t look up. A tremor ran through his shoulders. "Yes, Master," he breathed, the words thick with a desperate sincerity that made Pete’s stomach twist. "I understand. I accept."
"Good," Karn stated, simple and final. He didn’t spare another glance. His polished shoes clicked decisively on the marble as he walked towards Silas. "Silas. Come." He snapped his fingers once, crisp and commanding. Silas sprang off the sofa like an overeager puppy, beaming. "Playtime with Karn Friend?" he chirped, falling into step beside Karn without question. The heavy penthouse door hissed open and shut behind them. Silence crashed back in, broken only by Mark’s shaky breathing and the low hum of the city beyond the glass.
Pete moved instantly. He dropped to his knees on the cold marble beside Mark, the contrast between his clothed form and Mark’s nakedness stark. "Mark," Pete whispered urgently, his voice rough with concern. He reached out, hesitated, then gently placed a hand on Mark’s trembling shoulder. The skin was cool, clammy. "Are you... are you really okay? That was...intense." He searched Mark’s downcast face, seeing the bruise high on his cheekbone from the jail, the raw vulnerability in every line of his body.
Mark flinched at the touch, then seemed to crumple further. He slid from his kneeling position, pressing his forehead hard against the polished stone floor in a deep, abject bow. His voice was muffled, choked. "Okay?" He let out a harsh, humorless sound. "Pete... I don’t deserve to receive any mitigation. None." He shuddered. "I betrayed Titan. I betrayed you. I should be in a cell right now." He raised his head slightly, just enough to look sideways at Pete, his eyes wide, red-rimmed pools of disbelief and shame. "But the Master... he gave me mercy. He pulled me out. He kept me out of jail." There was awe in his terror. Genuine, bewildered awe. "He didn’t have to do that. He really didn't have to."
Pete rocked back on his heels, confusion warring with empathy. Karn seemed so cold, so controlling. Putting Mark through this naked humiliation. Yet... Mark’s raw gratitude, his conviction that Karn had saved him from a worse fate... it didn’t align with the casual cruelty Pete expected. Something vital felt missing. Karn was capable of cruelty, Pete knew that bone-deep from the jail, from the calculated destruction of Patrick Vale. But this? This felt... different. Calculated, yes, but the aim felt obscured.
"He is cruel, isn't he?" Pete murmured aloud, more to himself than Mark, his brow furrowed as he stared at the door Karn had exited. "Making you do this... it feels cruel. But... it doesn't feel like his kind of cruel." The distinction felt important, slippery.
A soft snort came from the cream sofa. Tarn was sprawled lazily, one arm flung over his eyes, the other dangling towards the floor. He peeked out from under his arm, his expression amused and knowing. "Cruel? Nah, cuz-brother-in-law," he drawled, his voice light but sharp with insight. "That ain't cruelty. That's Karn's version of a mercy drop-off, gift-wrapped in dominance." He lifted his head slightly, looking directly at Pete. "Think about it. My cousin? He ignores every Red Tag's suffering like background noise. Always has. Except yours, back when you wore red." He pointed a lazy finger at Pete. "He saw yours. Acted on it. Now?" Tarn gestured towards Mark, still prone on the floor. "He saw Mark drowning in the deep end because of Patrick. He didn't just throw him a rope; he jumped in, dragged him out, and got him special dispensation from the big boss himself." Tarn lowered his voice, his gaze sharpening. "But Mark did screw up. Big time. Consequences gotta land. So Karn does what Karn does best: he takes control. He offers to personally handle the fallout, the 're-education'. Makes Mark his direct Black Tag problem." Tarn shrugged, settling back. "Ensures Mark is safe. Under Karn's eye, under Karn's rules, nobody else in Titan touches him. That’s the deal. That’s the mercy."
Pete stared at Tarn, the pieces clicking into place with a cold, jarring clarity. Karn hadn’t humiliated Mark for sport. He’d created a brutal, undeniable shield. By claiming Mark so publicly, so possessively, in the most degrading way possible, he’d made Mark untouchable to anyone else seeking retribution. The nakedness, the collar, the crawling – they weren't just punishment. They were armor. A horrifying, dehumanizing armor. Pete looked back down at Mark, who hadn’t moved from his bowed position on the cold marble, trembling slightly, his exposed back a map of vulnerability. Safe. The word echoed strangely. Pete slowly rose to his feet, the panoramic cityscape blurring as he tried to reconcile the ruthless strategist with the hidden protector. The grand piano gleamed, reflecting his own troubled reflection. Safe. At what cost?
The chill of the marble seeped through Pete’s pants where he’d knelt, a stark contrast to the warmth flooding his face as he stared at Mark’s bowed form. Safe. The word tasted like ash. Mark’s trembling shoulders, the stark vulnerability of his nakedness against the cold luxury – was this protection, or just another kind of cage? Pete’s throat tightened, the cityscape beyond the vast windows blurring into streaks of indifferent light.
Tarn swung his legs down from the sofa, his boots thudding softly on the thick rug. “Stop overthinking it, brother-in-law,” he said, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze sharp and knowing on Pete’s troubled face. “Seriously. Karn’s brain runs equations while the rest of us are still blinking.” He gestured vaguely towards the door Karn had exited. “He mapped this entire thing the second you mentioned Mark back in that stinking jail cell. How Mark was solid. How he had your back when you were drowning in Red Tag hell.” Tarn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That was the key, Pete. You saying Mark was good.”
Pete blinked, the memory slamming back: the cold, damp jail air, the despair on Mark’s face, his own desperate plea – ‘Mark’s a good guy, Karn. He helped me.’ And Karn’s reaction? Immediate, terrifying focus. A laser lock on Patrick Vale. The ruthless erasure, the public blacklisting… all ignited by that single sentence. Pete sucked in a breath. “He… he decided right then? To help Mark? Because I said…?”
“Bingo,” Tarn confirmed, popping the ‘g’. He settled back, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “Karn doesn’t waste time on sentiment. But he values your judgment like gospel. You said Mark was worth saving? Done.” He spread his hands. “Execution? That’s just his gift. See the board, calculate the moves, endgame. Fast.” Tarn tapped his temple. “That’s why he rocketed to Tier 1 Purple before he could legally rent a car without a surcharge. Calculates the whole damn universe in a heartbeat.” He glanced at Mark, still motionless on the floor. “Considers Mark worth the hassle now because you vouched for him. Full stop.”
Pete looked down at Mark again. The sheer speed of Karn’s decision, the terrifying precision of his vengeance against Patrick, suddenly crystallized. It wasn’t just cold strategy; it was a terrifyingly efficient response. Because Pete had spoken. A wave of cold awe washed over him, prickling his skin. “He’s… really impressive,” Pete murmured, the words feeling inadequate. “Seeing it all so fast. Acting so… precisely.”
Tarn chuckled softly. “That’s Karn’s superpower, bro. Seeing the angles before anyone else even knows it’s a polygon.” He nudged Pete’s foot with his boot. “So quit stressing. Your boy Mark? He’s under Karn’s wing now. Weird wing. Probably involves crawling and collars.” He shrugged. “But it’s safer than the alternatives Karn could’ve cooked up. Or left him to.”
Mark let out a shaky breath against the marble floor, his knuckles white where his hands were still locked behind his head. The raw gratitude and shame radiating from him were palpable. Pete slowly crouched down again, not touching, but close. “Mark,” he said quietly. “You heard Tarn. Karn… he saw something worth protecting. Because of you. Because of what you did for me.”
The penthouse door hissed open. Karn strode back in. The scent of expensive sandalwood soap cut through the lingering tension. He stopped abruptly, his sharp eyes narrowing at the sight before him.
Mark hadn’t moved an inch. Still naked, still bowed low over his knees, hands locked behind his head, forehead pressed to the cold marble. His entire body trembled faintly.
"Why is this idiot still bowing down like a discarded umbrella?" Karn’s voice was flat, impatient, cutting through the silence. He didn’t look at Mark, addressing the room. "Who exactly are you waiting for, Mark?" He took a deliberate step closer, his shadow falling over the prone figure. "A formal invitation? A butler with a silver tray? Get up."
Mark flinched violently at the command but remained frozen, a statue of shame. Pete started forward, but Tarn’s hand clamped subtly on his arm, holding him back with a tiny shake of his head.
Karn sighed, a sound of profound irritation, and walked past Mark without a glance. He dropped onto the plush cream sofa next to Tarn, the leather sighing under his weight. He stretched his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles, and finally turned his gaze towards Mark, who was now shakily pushing himself upright onto his knees, knees still wide apart, hands still behind his head. Karn’s expression was one of pure, cold indifference.
"Listen carefully, Mark," Karn stated, his voice devoid of any warmth. "I don't care about you. Not remotely. I could have let you rot in that concrete box for the rest of your miserable existence. Wouldn't have cost me a single second of sleep."
He paused, letting the brutal honesty sink in. Mark shuddered, his gaze fixed on the floor between Karn’s feet. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
"The only reason your worthless hide isn't moldering in a cell right now," Karn continued, his tone icy, "is because Pete," he gestured dismissively towards where Pete stood rigid, "showed me you might possess a single, solitary neuron worth salvaging. He vouched for you. Said you were a 'good guy'." Karn’s lip curled slightly on the words. "Unfortunately, Pete is also terminally stupid." His gaze flicked to Pete, not unkindly, but with stark assessment. "He couldn't strategize his way out of a paper bag, let alone conceive of a viable exit strategy for your pathetic situation. So I took the action. Because someone had to."
Karn leaned forward slightly, his eyes boring into Mark’s downcast face. "For the next six months, you are Black Tag probation. My property. You will remain completely naked at all times within this penthouse. Your conduct, your obedience, your very existence during this period will be evaluated. That evaluation determines your rank afterward. Red Tag? Maybe. Lower? Likely. Out on your ear? Entirely possible." He leaned back again, crossing his arms. "Re-educating you personally, Mark, would be a monumental waste of my exceedingly valuable time. Therefore, if you wish to have even a snowball's chance of surviving Titan after this probation, you will ask Pete." He nodded towards Pete again. "Ask him what you need to know. What you need to do. How to be. He's your handbook now. Figure it out."
Karn pushed himself off the sofa in one fluid motion. Without another word, he turned and strode purposefully towards the hallway leading to the bedrooms and the shower. The sound of another door closing, followed moments later by the distinct rush of water, filled the sudden void.
Tarn leaned close to Pete, his voice a conspiratorial whisper barely audible over the running water and Mark’s ragged breathing. "Like I said."
Tarn, perched on the edge of the cream-colored sofa, broke the silence with a chuckle, his energy cutting through the tension like a knife. "Pete, you’re overthinking it," he said, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of seriousness. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his sharp eyes locking onto Pete’s. "Karn’s not gonna spell it out for you. That’s not his style. But he’s giving you a chance here—a big one."
Pete blinked, his brow furrowing. "A chance for what?" His voice was hesitant, almost childlike in its uncertainty. Tarn smirked, shaking his head as if Pete’s cluelessness was both endearing and exasperating. "The re-education, Pete. Mark’s your responsibility now. Karn’s expecting you to push him to at least Tier 4 Purple Tag by the end of probation. That’s the challenge."
Pete’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to process the words. "Wait, what? Karn didn’t say anything about that." His voice rose slightly, panic creeping in. Tarn shrugged, leaning back again, his expression amused. "Of course he didn’t. He’s testing you, seeing if you can figure it out on your own. That’s how he works. You know that."
Pete glanced at Mark, who was still kneeling, his breathing shallow, his posture rigid. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on Pete’s shoulders, a mix of fear and determination bubbling up inside him. He didn’t know if he could do it—didn’t even know where to start—but the thought of disappointing Karn made his chest tighten.
Tarn stood up, clapping Pete on the shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. "You’ll figure it out," he said, his voice softer now, almost comforting. "Just don’t overthink it. Karn believes in you—that’s why he gave you this. Don’t let him down."
Pete nodded slowly, his resolve hardening even as doubt lingered in the back of his mind. He glanced at Mark again, the man’s vulnerability stark and raw, and felt a flicker of determination. He didn’t know how, but he’d find a way to rise to the challenge. He had to.
The shower door hissed open. Karn strode back in, hair damp, wearing just black sweatpants low on his hips, the scent of expensive, clean soap trailing him. He barely glanced at the scene – Pete frozen near the sofa, Tarn watching with sharp eyes, Mark still kneeling rigidly naked on the cold marble floor, hands locked behind his head. Karn crossed the vast room towards his bedroom, the city lights catching the water droplets on his shoulders.
He disappeared inside. Silence settled, thick and heavy, broken only by Mark's shaky breaths. Then, Karn’s voice, low and urgent, filtered through the partially open door. He was talking to someone, the words muffled but the tone sharp, commanding. Pete exchanged a confused look with Tarn, who just shrugged, his face unreadable.
The bedroom door flew open. Karn reappeared, already pulling a dark t-shirt over his head, his expression tense, focused. He pointed directly at Pete, his voice clipped. "Pete. Dress Mark. Properly. Now." He didn’t wait for a response, already striding towards the penthouse entrance, grabbing his jacket from a chair. The heavy front door slammed shut behind him, the echo bouncing off the high ceilings.
Silence crashed back. Pete blinked, stunned. Mark, still kneeling, looked utterly bewildered, fear warring with confusion on his face. Tarn pushed off the sofa, frowning towards the door. "What the hell was that about?"
"Dress him, Pete," Tarn said, gesturing towards Mark. "Properly means properly. Karn doesn't say that lightly."
Pete shook off his confusion. Karn had given an order. He moved quickly to the pile of discarded sweats near Mark. "Okay, Mark. Up. Come on." He helped the trembling man to his feet, his skin cold and clammy under Pete’s touch. Pete pulled the soft grey sweatpants up Mark’s legs, helping him step into them, then guided his arms through the sweatshirt sleeves. He zipped it up, the fabric swallowing Mark’s frame. The stark black collar around Mark’s neck stood out against the grey cotton, a constant reminder. Pete fixed the hood, pulling it away from Mark’s face. "There," he said, trying to sound reassuring. Mark just stared blankly ahead, shivering despite the clothes.
Tarn paced near the windows, peering down at the city streets below. "Properly dressed... what’s going on?"
Thirty minutes crawled by, filled with tense silence and unanswered questions. The penthouse felt immense and hollow. Then, the discreet chime of the private elevator sounded. The doors slid open. Karn stepped out first, his expression unreadable but calm. Right behind him, her face pale and etched with deep worry lines, was a woman Pete recognized instantly from Mark’s old desk photos: Mrs. Grubbypank, Mark’s mother. She clutched a worn handbag tightly, her eyes scanning the luxurious space with bewildered fear before landing on her son.
"Mom!" Mark’s voice cracked, raw emotion shattering his stillness. He stumbled forward, crossing the distance in clumsy strides, and threw his arms around her. He buried his face in her shoulder, his body shaking with silent sobs. "Mom..."
Mrs. Grubbypank hugged him back fiercely, her own eyes filling with tears. "Marky... oh, Marky..." She held him tight, her knuckles white on his back.
Karn stepped slightly aside, observing the reunion with detached calm. "The police contacted me," he explained to the room, his voice level but carrying easily. "Mrs. Grubbypank arrived at the jail expecting to visit her son. Understandably distressed when he wasn't there." He met Mrs. Grubbypank’s tear-filled gaze over Mark’s shoulder. "I briefed her on the situation during the drive. Mark was coerced into illegal acts by Patrick Vale. He confessed fully to his role under duress, which significantly mitigated his legal sentence. The court has transferred oversight of his rehabilitation and probation directly to me."
Mark pulled back slightly from his mother, his face streaked with tears. He looked utterly broken. Slowly, deliberately, he sank to his knees again right there on the plush rug before her. He bowed his head low, pressing his forehead against the soft fibers. "I'm sorry, Mom," he choked out, his voice thick with shame. "I'm so sorry... I committed a crime. I let you down."
Mrs. Grubbypank looked down at her kneeling son, her expression shifting from pure relief to something harder, sadder, yet fiercely loving. She reached down, placing a gentle hand on his lowered head. "Oh, Mark," she sighed, her voice trembling but firm. "My foolish boy. What you did... the consequences... they are yours to bear now. They come from your choices." She stroked his hair once. "You must learn from this. Accept the path laid before you. That is how you become better."
Mark raised his tear-stained face, meeting his mother’s eyes. "I understand, Mom," he whispered, the words a solemn vow. "I promise. I will learn. I will improve myself. I will be better." The black collar seemed stark against his vulnerable throat.
Karn watched the exchange, his gaze calculating. "Mark," he stated, breaking the intimate moment. His voice held no warmth, only command. "Escort your mother back home. Ensure she arrives safely." He paused, his eyes locking onto Mark's with undeniable authority. "Report back to me immediately upon your return. Do not be late." He turned on his heel without another word, his polished shoes silent on the rug as he walked purposefully back towards his bedroom. The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.