Gabe took another step closer, his voice cracking as the anger gave way to a desperate, trembling sorrow. "Babe, I'm right here," he whispered, searching Trent’s face for even a flicker of the man he loved. "Talk to me. It’s been three months. Three months without a single word. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
Trent’s head rolled slightly to the side. For a fleeting second, the milky glaze in his eyes seemed to thin. His brow furrowed in a brief, agonizing twitch of effort, as if he were trying to pull a memory from the bottom of a deep, dark well. His gaze drifted across the lawn, landing on Gabe with a flicker of something raw and painful.
"Gabe... I... I..." Trent’s voice was barely a breath, a ghost of a sound struggling to reach his lips through the haze of the trance and the residue on his face.
Before the thought could take shape, Marcus’s hand moved. It was a gesture of terrifyingly gentle authority. He reached up and swept two fingers across Trent’s forehead, then rested his palm lightly over Trent’s eyes.
"Shhh... enough noise for now, kid," Marcus crooned, his voice dropping into a deep, hypnotic frequency that vibrated through the air.
The effect was instant. Whatever spark of Trent had been trying to surface was snuffed out. His entire frame went limp, his head lolling back into the crook of Marcus's arm as he plummeted into a sleep so deep it looked like death. The tension drained from his face, leaving behind only that smooth, expressionless mask of marble-like perfection.
Gabe stood frozen, his eyes wide with horror as he watched the man he loved disappear right in front of him. "What did you do to him?" he managed to choke out.
Marcus turned his head, his aviators reflecting the moonlight as he looked at Gabe with a cold, clinical detachment. "I gave him what you never could," he said, his voice flat and final. "Silence. I don't know how you found your way into my home, Gabe, but the exhibition is closed. You should leave now, before the situation becomes... irreversible."
"I'm not going anywhere without him," Gabe snarled, his voice rising in a desperate attempt to regain control. "I’ve seen what you do to these men. I’ll go to the police. This is brainwashing. It's a cult. You're holding him against his will."
Marcus let out a short, dry laugh—a sound that carried the absolute confidence of a man who owned the city. "The police? Do you want me to call Captain Hudson at the precinct for you? I’m sure your story would provide him with a great deal of amusement over dinner tomorrow. He’s a very old friend of mine, Gabe. He appreciates fine art as much as I do."
Marcus leaned back, adjusting his position slightly while keeping Trent secure against his chest. He didn't look up, his fingers resuming their slow, possessive tracing along Trent's hip. "Go home, Gabe. Before I get irritated."
Gabe’s jaw tightened. He ignored the threat, his eyes fixed on the unconscious man on the lounger. He took a long, heavy step forward, his sneakers scraping against the stone.
"I said," Gabe repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low growl, "I'm not leaving without him."