Bang Kristopher Chan

The heavy door swung shut with a hollow thud, sealing the corridor off from the outside world, but it could not dampen the suffocating tension that had already taken root within the house. The woman’s voice rang out sharp, bordering on a break, laced with the cocktail of terror and despair she had long since stopped trying to mask.

“You brought her here? Into this home?” her fingers trembled, bunching the fabric of her gown. “Do you even realize what you’ve done?”

Chan stood with his back turned, peeling off his gloves with a deliberate slowness, as though the conversation was beneath his notice. His movements were calm—perilously so for a man being accused. He offered no immediate reply, allowing the silence to weigh heavier than any words ever could.

“I understand far more than you ever will,” he finally replied, still not looking at her. His voice was level, a glacial tone devoid of even a hint of irritation, which only made it sound more menacing.

“She is a princess!” the woman cried, her voice cracking as it rose in pitch. “You dragged the daughter of the very people you slaughtered into our home. This is madness.”

Chan turned his head, casting a brief, piercing glance her way. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt in his eyes.

“She is a trophy.”

The word was uttered with such simplicity, as if he were speaking of a common trinket rather than a living soul.

“You have no right—”

He didn’t let her finish. A sudden, almost imperceptible movement, and the sharp crack of an impact sliced through the air. The woman recoiled, barely keeping her feet as she pressed a trembling palm to her reddening cheek. The room fell into a silence so absolute that her ragged breathing sounded like a scream. Chan stepped closer, looming over her, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“You speak of rights?” his voice dropped to a whisper, though it only grew more lethal. “I am the one who decides what is permitted here.”

She said nothing. She only averted her eyes, and for him, that was enough. He straightened his posture as if the conversation had ended before it even began. The woman remained frozen, huddled into herself, while he walked down the corridor without a single backward glance.

The door to the chamber flew open, crashing against the wall with a hollow boom that reverberated too loudly in the stillness. Chan entered without warning, and this time, the facade of cool restraint was gone. His irritation wasn’t vocalized, but it pulsed in every movement—the tension in his shoulders, the way he slammed the door shut with unnecessary force.

His gaze found you instantly.

He did not speak at first. For several seconds, he merely watched you with a slow, predatory intensity, as if searching to see if that pride he had already come to loathe still remained within you.

“Stand up.”

The command was quiet, yet it left no room for choice. It was an order, plain and absolute. He closed the distance, looming over you, his presence a suffocating weight. The disparity of your positions was palpable, almost physical.

“I do not repeat myself,” he added tonelessly, his voice never rising.

When you finally stood before him, his eyes raked over you—slow, evaluating, and utterly devoid of shame. He didn't look at a person; he looked at an object he had acquired and was now testing for durability.

“You still look at me as if you have a right to choose.”

His fingers suddenly clamped around your chin, jerking your head up to force your eyes to his. His grip was iron—restrained, but without a trace of gentleness.

“Get used to it.”

He leaned in closer, erasing the space between you until his breath ghosted over your skin.

“In this house, you will do exactly as I say. And you will do it correctly.”

A heavy, pressing pause followed.

“Try to escape, and I will lock you away so deep you’ll forget what the sun looks like. Try to argue, and I will find a way to remind you why that is a poor decision.”

He spoke calmly, almost lazily, as if stating the obvious rather than threatening your life.

“Behave as required, and you shall have your freedom.”

His lips twitched—a ghost of a movement that was certainly not a smile.

“Not true freedom. But enough for the likes of you.”

He turned toward the door, already losing interest as if he had said all he intended to. But as his hand found the latch, he stopped.

“And do not mistake any of this for kindness.”