Chapter 76: Sabotage and Savage Intervention
The Grand Ballroom at Titan Headquarters wasn't grand tonight. It was a cold, echoing cavern of polished black marble and towering sheets of reinforced glass, reflecting the harsh glare of overhead fluorescents. The air hummed, thick with the clatter of keyboards on cheap plastic desks and the low murmur of forced conversation. It smelled of industrial cleaner, expensive perfume worn by Purple Tags, and the faint, underlying tang of sweat and fear.
Pete shifted uncomfortably in his stiff-backed chair at Karn’s luxury table. His crisp white shirt felt tight across his shoulders, the fabric rubbing against the still-tender bite marks Karn had left just hours before. He kept glancing sideways at Karn, who sat impeccably composed in a charcoal grey suit, sipping mineral water, his expression unreadable. The memory of teeth breaking skin, the frantic, painful scramble behind the bookshelf, was a raw, throbbing echo beneath the sterile party atmosphere. Don't be the root, Pete thought desperately. Please, not tonight.
Across the vast expanse of marble, Red Tags hunched at flimsy, cramped desks, clad only in thin, brightly colored thongs. Their discomfort was palpable, a collective shiver in the chilly air-conditioning. But they weren't the focus. The spectacle was the movement between the tables.
Chains rattled. Heavy, polished steel links dragged across the gleaming floor. Ben Miller, Pab Chen, Gareth Finch, and Anya Rostova moved through the throng like naked, collared ghosts. Black leather collars encircled their necks, each attached to a thick chain that pooled loosely on the floor behind them before being clipped to the next person’s collar. Anya walked first, her spine rigid, face a mask of furious humiliation. Gareth followed, his gaze fixed on the floor, shoulders slumped. Ben and Pab brought up the rear, their expressions simmering with resentment. They were utterly exposed, forced to carry trays laden with champagne flutes and canapés, navigating the maze of Purple Tag tables and Red Tag desks.
Laughter followed them. Sharp, mocking barks from clusters of Purple Tags – their former peers, their former subordinates. "Benny! Fetch!" someone called. Gareth flinched as a Purple Tag executive deliberately dropped a shrimp puff onto the floor near his feet. "Clean that up, Finch. Use your hands." Gareth knelt, his chain clanking loudly, face burning crimson as he scooped the mess off the cold marble with bare fingers. Anya, delivering drinks to a table, endured a lingering hand sliding over her buttock from a grinning Purple Tag. She froze, her knuckles white on the tray, but said nothing. The chains ensured obedience.
Their eyes, however, burned with a shared, venomous hatred. Not just towards their tormentors, but towards the lone figure moving with relative freedom near Karn’s table.
Mark Grubbypank stood beside Karn’s chair, utterly naked save for the stark black collar locked around his neck. Unlike the others, he wasn't chained to anyone. His sole chain, shorter and thicker, lay coiled neatly at Karn’s feet, its end secured to a heavy ring bolted into the marble floor beneath Karn’s table. Mark’s sole duty was Karn. He refilled Karn’s water glass with trembling hands. He offered Karn a selection of canapés from a small silver tray Karn had provided him. He stood at rigid attention, eyes downcast, his cock, as always in his exposed state, fully erect, bobbing slightly with each nervous breath. The privilege – serving only Karn, unchained from the degrading procession – was a glaring insult to Ben, Pab, Gareth, and Anya. They saw it every time they shuffled past Karn’s table: Mark standing there, spared the worst of it, while they endured universal degradation.
"He thinks he's special," Ben hissed under his breath as they paused near a service station, momentarily shielded from direct view. He snatched a fresh tray of champagne flutes, his movements jerky with suppressed rage. "Just because Karn likes his algorithms."
"Special?" Pab spat, grabbing another tray. "He's just Karn's pet. A naked pet with a hard-on." He glanced towards Mark, his eyes narrowed. "Look at him. Standing there like he belongs."
Anya’s voice was a venomous whisper. "He doesn't. He stole Pete’s work too, just like us. He just got caught differently. Karn’s playing favorites." Her gaze flickered to Pete, sitting nervously beside Karn, then back to Mark. "He doesn't deserve that collar. He deserves this." She gestured subtly at their chains.
Gareth, usually quieter, clenched his fists. "Karn humiliates him too. We saw it. The wolf thing. The biting." He shuddered slightly, recalling Pete’s description of Karn’s ‘creativity’. "But here? Tonight? He looks… protected."
"Not for long," Ben murmured, a cruel glint entering his eyes. He leaned closer to the huddled group. "See that tray Mark’s holding? The one Karn gave him? Silver. Heavy. Full of those delicate little salmon things Karn likes."
Anya’s lips curved into a tight, malicious smile. "He’s clumsy. We all know Pete’s clumsy, but Mark? He’s nervous as hell right now. Shaking like a leaf."
Pab caught on instantly. "A little… nudge. When he’s serving Karn. Something spills. On Karn’s pristine suit." He grinned, showing teeth. "Karn hates mess. Especially his mess."
"Exactly," Ben breathed. "Karn’s already on edge. Pete looks terrified of him. One spill. Karn’s precious suit ruined. In front of everyone." He looked at each of them. "We create a distraction. A little chain tangle near Karn’s table. Just as Mark leans in. Gareth, you stumble. Into Anya. Anya, you bump Pab. Pab…"
"...bumps Mark," Pab finished, his grin widening. "Hard. Right as he’s handing Karn that fancy fish."
"And Karn," Anya whispered, her voice thick with anticipation, "will unleash hell on his pet. Not us. Him. He’ll see Mark for the liability he is. He’ll make him wish he was chained with us."
The plan solidified in the charged silence between them. The shared humiliation, the jealousy, the desperate need to drag Mark down into their abyss – it forged a brittle, dangerous alliance. They moved out again, chains rattling, trays held high, their nakedness a uniform of shame. But now, beneath the shame, pulsed a current of malicious intent. Their eyes met Mark’s across the room, not with pity, but with a promise of imminent downfall.
Mark felt the weight of their stares like physical blows. He kept his gaze fixed on the rim of Karn’s water glass as he refilled it. Karn hadn't spoken to him beyond curt orders since they arrived. Pete kept shooting him worried glances, his own fear radiating palpably. Mark’s erection throbbed, a persistent, humiliating reminder of his body’s betrayal even in terror. He clutched the small silver tray Karn had entrusted to him – laden with precisely arranged smoked salmon blinis – like a lifeline. Don't drop it. Don't spill. Don't breathe wrong.
He saw Ben, Pab, Gareth, and Anya approaching Karn’s table again, this time carrying trays piled high with empty glasses and discarded plates. Their chains clanked louder than usual. Mark tensed, instinctively stepping half a pace back, closer to Karn’s chair. Karn glanced up, his expression coolly assessing the approaching Black Tags.
"Master Karn," Mark murmured, his voice tight. "Another blini?" He angled the tray slightly towards Karn, his hand trembling visibly.
Karn gave a minute nod, reaching for one. This was the moment. Mark leaned forward carefully.
Simultaneously, chaos erupted beside them. Gareth, shuffling forward with his tray of empties, suddenly cried out as if his chain had jerked. He stumbled sideways, crashing heavily into Anya. Anya, with theatrical exaggeration, gasped and lurched into Pab. Pab, perfectly positioned, stumbled backwards with a loud grunt, his elbow jutting out sharply.
It connected solidly with Mark’s hip.
Mark gasped. The impact wasn't massive, but it was unexpected, perfectly timed, and hit his balance point. His hand jerked. The heavy silver tray tilted. The meticulously arranged blinis slid. One, then two, then the entire cascade of delicate salmon-topped morsels, along with dollops of crème fraiche and sprigs of dill, launched into the air.
Time seemed to slow. Mark watched in horror as the blinis arced downwards. Not onto the floor. Not onto the table.
Onto Karn Thorne.
A blini landed squarely on Karn’s immaculate charcoal grey trouser leg, leaving a greasy, creamy smear. Another splattered against the sleeve of his tailored jacket. A chunk of salmon slid down his crisp white shirtfront.
Silence crashed down. The clatter of keyboards ceased. Conversations died mid-sentence. Every eye in the vast ballroom snapped towards Karn’s table. The fluorescent lights seemed to intensify, glaring down on the scene: Karn, frozen, staring down at the ruin of his suit; Mark, naked and trembling, the empty silver tray dangling uselessly from one hand; Ben, Pab, Gareth, and Anya frozen mid-stumble, chains taut, their faces masks of feigned shock and poorly concealed triumph.
Pete sat rigid beside Karn, his face drained of color, his own bite marks throbbing in sync with his hammering heart. He saw Karn’s shoulders tense. Saw the slow, deliberate way Karn lowered the hand that had been reaching for a blini. Saw Karn’s head lift, not towards Mark, but towards the tangled cluster of Black Tags responsible.
Karn’s face was utterly expressionless. Blank. Cold. The terrifying calm before the hurricane Pete knew all too well. The air grew thick, charged with a suffocating pressure. Karn didn't look angry. He looked… empty. Calculating. Dangerous in a way that made the earlier biting frenzy seem almost tame.
Mark whimpered, a tiny, broken sound. The chain at Karn’s feet lay still. Karn slowly, methodically, picked a piece of dill off his lapel. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, examining it as if it were a fascinating specimen.
Then, Karn’s eyes, flat and devoid of warmth, finally lifted. They locked onto Mark’s terrified face. His lips parted.
Karn’s gaze, colder than the marble floor, finally lifted from the greasy smear on his trousers. It pinned Mark where he stood, naked and trembling, the empty silver tray dangling like a shield made of tin. The fluorescent glare sharpened every detail: the oily sheen on Karn’s sleeve, the fleck of dill clinging to his collar, the stark terror widening Mark’s eyes. Karn’s lips parted, not in a snarl, but with unnerving precision.
"How long," Karn’s voice cut through the suffocating silence, smooth as ice, "have you worked under my direct guidance, Mark?" The question landed like a physical weight.
Mark flinched. "Th-Three months, Master Karn," he stammered, the words scraping his throat raw. His chain lay coiled, inert, at Karn’s feet. "Sir. Three months."
Karn tilted his head slightly, a predator assessing prey. "Do you believe," he continued, his tone conversational yet razor-edged, "that I am stupid?" He flicked the piece of dill onto the floor. "What is my preference when asking questions?"
Mark swallowed hard, the black collar suddenly feeling like a garrote. "The truth, Master Karn," he whispered, then forced volume. "Always the truth! I swear… I never thought you were stupid. Never." His voice cracked. "You see through everything. You’re… genius."
A flicker, almost imperceptible, crossed Karn’s impassive face. Not satisfaction. Calculation. He leaned back infinitesimally in his chair, the ruined suit stark against the luxury setting. His eyes never left Mark’s. "Then," Karn stated, the word dropping like a stone, "what should I do to you? For this… accident?" He gestured minimally at the blinis staining his clothes. "You dropped expensive food onto expensive fabric. In front of everyone."
The question hung, monstrous. It wasn’t rage. It was colder, deeper. An invitation to self-condemnation. Mark froze, his mind blanking. Punishment? What punishment wouldn’t be catastrophic? Behind Karn, Pete sat rigid, his own bite marks throbbing in silent empathy, his knuckles white on the tablecloth. Across the room, Ben, Pab, Gareth, and Anya watched, their malicious triumph evaporating into wary confusion. This wasn’t the furious explosion they’d anticipated. This was worse.
Mark’s mouth worked soundlessly. The chain felt impossibly heavy. Karn waited, utterly still. The silence stretched, tightening around Mark’s throat. He had to answer. Truthfully. What did Karn want? What horror awaited? The fluorescent lights hummed. The scent of salmon and fear filled his nostrils. His erection, a persistent betrayer, pulsed weakly against his thigh. He opened his mouth.
Mark opened his mouth, the metallic taste of panic sharp on his tongue. "Master Karn, I—"
"Truth," Karn sliced through the stammer, his voice a low, dangerous hum that vibrated in the sudden silence. His eyes, flat and obsidian, held Mark immobile. "Only truth."
Not far away, clustered near a gleaming ice sculpture shaped like the Titan logo, Ben, Pab, Gareth, and Anya watched. Chains pooled loosely around their ankles. Ben nudged Pab, a smirk twisting his lips. "See?" he murmured, low and vicious. "Told you. Karn’s gonna flay him alive for that suit." Anya’s sharp nod was pure satisfaction, her gaze fixed on Mark’s trembling form. "His little pet act ends tonight," she breathed. Gareth chuckled darkly, the sound swallowed by the ballroom’s tense quiet. "Hope Karn makes him lick the salmon off the floor."
Mark flinched as if physically struck by their whispers. He dropped to his knees on the cold marble, the impact jarring his bones. The black collar dug into his throat. He bowed his head low, exposing the vulnerable nape of his neck. "Master Karn," he choked out, voice thick with desperation. "I swear… I didn’t intend to drop it! Never!" He forced his head up slightly, meeting Karn’s chilling gaze. "Someone… someone hit me. From behind. Hard. It knocked me forward."
He swallowed, the chain at Karn’s feet seeming to coil tighter. "It was an accident. For me." His eyes flickered, just for a microsecond, towards the smirking group near the ice sculpture. "But… but maybe not for them." He sucked in a ragged breath. "You see everything, Master Karn. You know things… things no one else sees." His voice dropped to a raw whisper. "Please… don’t punish me for this. Find who pushed me. Find out… if they meant it." The plea hung in the frigid air, a fragile shield against Karn’s terrifying stillness.
Karn didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He simply stared down at Mark, kneeling naked and collared before the ruined elegance of his suit. The fluorescent light carved harsh shadows under his cheekbones, turning his handsome face into a mask of glacial contemplation. The oily smear on his trousers gleamed obscenely. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, pressing down on Pete, on the watching Black Tags, on the entire frozen ballroom. Only the faint, frantic pulse beating in Mark’s throat betrayed any movement. Karn’s fingers, resting lightly on the polished tabletop, slowly curled inward.
Karn’s fingers, resting lightly on the polished tabletop, slowly curled inward. The knuckles shone white beneath the skin. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed to intensify, bleaching the color from everything except the oily smear on his trousers and the stark terror in Mark’s eyes. Then, Karn’s hand lifted. Not in anger, but with deliberate, unnerving slowness. A single finger extended, pointing not at the spilled food, not at the terrified Mark, but directly at the black leather collar locked tight around Mark's throat.
"Mark," Karn’s voice sliced through the silence, cold and flat, devoid of inflection. "Stand." Mark scrambled to his feet, legs trembling. "Look at me." Mark forced his gaze up to meet Karn’s obsidian stare. A slight ripple went through the watching crowd – this wasn’t the expected explosion. "Now," Karn commanded, his voice carrying effortlessly in the hushed ballroom. "Say it. Out loud. What is engraved on that collar?"
Mark swallowed, the collar pressing hard against his Adam's apple. He drew a shuddering breath. "Karn Thorne," he declared, his voice surprisingly clear, ringing out across the marble expanse. He squared his shoulders slightly. "It says ‘Karn Thorne’. It means… it means I belong to Master Karn. Only Master Karn." The declaration hung in the air, absolute.
Near the ice sculpture, Ben let out a sharp, derisive snort. "Pathetic," he muttered. Pab elbowed Gareth, smirking openly now. "Still making puppy-dog eyes," Anya whispered, her voice laced with venom. "Think that'll save him? Karn’s just warming up." They watched, eager, leaning forward slightly, chains clinking softly. They were braced for the humiliation to truly begin, for Karn to finally turn his fury onto his clumsy, collared pet.
Karn’s gaze, however, didn’t waver from Mark’s face. He didn’t acknowledge the declaration. He simply let it resonate. Then, with a movement so smooth it was almost lazy, he turned his head. Not towards Mark. He turned and fixed his cold, impassive stare directly onto Ben, Anya, Pab, and Gareth. The smirk died on Pab’s face. Anya’s posture stiffened. Ben’s confident sneer faltered.
Karn’s voice, when it came, was deceptively soft, yet it carried like a thrown knife. "Ben. Anya. Pab. Gareth." He paused, letting each name land. "Does my collar," he gestured minimally towards Mark, "make you think I am stupid?" The question wasn't loud. It was chillingly precise. "Do you think... I don't see?"
All four Black Tags froze. Utterly still. Ben’s mouth opened slightly, then closed. Anya’s furious mask cracked into pure, unadulterated shock. Gareth went pale. Pab actually took a tiny, involuntary step back, his chain rattling loudly in the sudden, absolute silence. The smug anticipation vanished, replaced by dawning, icy horror. How? The unspoken question screamed in their wide, terrified eyes. Karn stared back, his expression unreadable, a glacier contemplating ants.
Meanwhile, Mark, released from Karn’s direct gaze, risked a desperate glance towards Pete’s empty chair. He was gone. Vanished. Panic flared – had Pete been dragged away? Punished for sitting near the disaster? Mark’s eyes darted frantically around the periphery of the crowded ballroom. Then he saw it. Movement near the small, raised stage at the front, usually reserved for executive announcements. A flash of familiar, swept-back hair, a lean frame bouncing with manic energy. Silas Malfoy. And beside him, looking pale but determined, stood Pete.
Silas snatched a wireless microphone from a startled AV tech near the stage. "Peeps! Hey, peeps! Eyes up front! Gather 'round the glowy box of truth!" he chirped, his voice amplified, jarringly cheerful against the ballroom’s tension. He hopped onto the low stage, dragging Pete up with him. Pete flinched slightly at the movement, a hand instinctively grazing his shoulder where Karn’s teeth had broken skin hours earlier. "We got a show! A real-time replay of some super interesting workplace collaboration!" Silas pointed a long finger dramatically towards the large screen behind him, previously displaying the Titan Holdings logo. "Roll the fun-times, tech buddy!" He beamed, utterly oblivious to the stunned atmosphere or the chains glinting in the light.
The screen flickered. The logo vanished. Grainy, color-saturated footage filled the massive display – clearly from a security camera positioned near the service station where the ice sculpture stood. There they were: Ben, Anya, Pab, Gareth. Huddled together, naked, collared, chained. The audio crackled, then clarified.
"...bumps Mark," Pab’s voice rasped from the speakers, his grin visible even in the slightly distorted image. "Hard. Right as he’s handing Karn that fancy fish."
"And Karn," Anya’s voice, thick with venomous anticipation, followed, "will unleash hell on his pet. Not us. Him... He’ll make him wish he was chained with us."
The footage showed Ben nodding, gesturing towards Karn’s table, Gareth shifting his weight – the planning session captured in damning detail. The microphone picked up the clink of their chains as they moved out to execute their sabotage.
The four black tags froze, their faces pale as the footage played out. Mark’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Karn, who was now striding toward the group with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Pete, standing beside Silas, shifted uncomfortably, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "This is… a lot," he muttered under his breath.
Silas grinned, slinging an arm around Pete’s shoulders. "Relax, Baby Pete! It’s just a little drama. Everyone loves drama, right?"
Karn stopped in front of the four black tags, his hands clasped behind his back. "So," he said, his voice deceptively light. "You thought you could orchestrate this little plan behind my back?"
Karn’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. "You four have a lot to think about," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And trust me, you’ll have plenty of time to do so."