After Three Years, the Mute Husband Speaks

Chapter 002

Today, Frank Yates was a vessel containing a storm. His heart hammered against his ribs, not out of fear, but out of a wild, desperate anticipation. He was a prisoner watching the clock tick down the final seconds of his sentence.

The black Mercedes E-Class purred smoothly through the wrought-iron gates of the Sunstar Villa Estates. The neighborhood was a sanctuary of manicured silence and architectural vanity, a place where the city's chaos was kept at bay by high walls and higher security fees. Frank navigated the winding streets with muscle memory, pulling the vehicle to a gentle halt in front of Villa Number Three.

Before the engine had even fully died, the rear door flew open. Snow Lee scrambled out as if the leather seats were on fire. She didn't look back; she didn't offer a nod of thanks. To her, escaping the proximity of her brother-in-law was a physical necessity. She moved with the urgency of someone trying to avoid contamination, her heels clicking rapidly on the pavement as she vanished into the house.

Frank didn't mind. In fact, he preferred it. Solitude was his ally tonight.

It was exactly 8:00 PM.

Frank parked the car in its designated spot, taking a moment to breathe in the cool evening air. It tasted different tonight—charged with static, heavy with fate. He entered the villa through the side door, moving like a shadow through the opulent hallways, avoiding the main living areas, and retreated to his room on the second floor.

He closed the door and locked it.

The room was sparse, almost clinical. It stood in stark contrast to the rest of the Lee family’s lavishly decorated home. This was his cell. Across the hall was another door, the bedroom of his wife, Cloud Lee. They had been married for four years. Four years of sharing a roof, a last name, and a legal document. Yet, the distance between their rooms might as well have been an ocean. They had never shared a bed. They had never even held hands. Their marriage was a hollow shell, a bureaucratic fiction maintained for appearances and superstitions.

Frank walked to the small desk in the corner. His hands were trembling slightly—not from weakness, but from the rising tide of energy within his body. He picked up a desk calendar. It was a mundane object, but to him, it was a countdown to destiny. He uncapped a black marker and, with a heavy, decisive stroke, crossed out the number 30.

Thirty days. Three years. It was done.

A fierce light burned in his eyes. The humiliation, the silence, the servitude—it all ended tonight. Even if The Old Man had lied to him, even if the injection was nothing more than poison or a placebo, Frank had made his decision. He would leave the Lee family. He would walk out of these gates and never look back, choosing the uncertainty of the streets over the certainty of this degradation.

Suddenly, a sharp spike of pain lanced through his skull. It was a warning shot.

Frank winced, dropping the pen. It was starting. The sensation was familiar, yet terrifyingly different this time. In previous years, the pain had been a dull roar; tonight, it felt like a drill boring directly into his brainstem.

He quickly stripped off his shirt, revealing a lean, scarred torso. He climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged, adopting a meditative posture he had intuitively learned over the years of suffering. He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow, attempting to anchor his mind against the coming tsunami. He had to be ready. He had to endure.

While Frank prepared for his ordeal upstairs, the atmosphere in the living room below was a study in contrast. The crystal chandelier cast a warm, golden glow over the expensive furniture, illuminating a scene of domestic conviviality.

Joan Foster, Frank’s mother-in-law, was beaming. She walked into the lounge accompanied by a young man who radiated confidence and success.

"Oh, Starr Hall, you really are too much," Joan said, her voice dripping with affection. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming back to Capital City sooner? I would have had the chef prepare something special." She gestured for him to sit on the Italian leather sofa. "Sit, sit. Let me get you some tea. We have some fresh Pre-Qingming Longjing Tea that I’ve been saving."

The man, Starr Hall, was the son of one of Joan’s wealthy socialite friends. He was dressed in a tailored casual suit that probably cost more than Frank’s entire wardrobe. Tall, with the long legs and polished features of a lead actor in a Korean drama, he was the very image of the perfect son-in-law Joan had always dreamed of.

"Auntie Joan, please, don't go to any trouble," Starr said, his voice smooth and cultivated. "I just graduated and got back from abroad today. I couldn't wait to come and pay my respects to you and Cloud Lee."

He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small, exquisitely wrapped box. With both hands, he presented it to Joan. "I came back in a rush, so I didn't have time to find anything truly spectacular. I just hope you’ll accept this small token."

Joan feigned a scolding look. "Starr, really! Your mother and I are like sisters. You didn't need to bring anything."

Starr smiled, a practiced expression of charm. "That’s exactly why I bought one for my mother and one for you, Auntie."

"You sweet child." Joan took the box, her fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. She opened it to reveal a jade bangle resting on black velvet. Even to an untrained eye, the jade was translucent and vibrant, a high-quality piece that likely cost tens of thousands of dollars.

"It's beautiful," Joan breathed, placing the box on the coffee table with reverence. She went to the kitchenette to pour the tea, but as she did, a heavy sigh escaped her lips.

Looking at Starr, she felt a pang of deep regret. She had watched Starr grow up. He was smart, wealthy, and respectful. Years ago, before he went overseas, Joan had secretly hoped to match him with her daughter, Cloud Lee. They would have been a power couple. But then Starr left for his studies, and tragedy struck.

Shortly after Starr's departure, Cloud Lee had fallen ill with a mysterious, debilitating sickness. The best hospitals in the country were baffled. Desperate and terrified, Joan, who had always harbored a superstitious streak, turned to the occult. A fortune teller had given her a bizarre prescription: Find a man to marry into the family. A Matrilocal Marriage. A Marriage for Luck. The joyous energy of a wedding would flush out the bad spirits.

It sounded insane, but they were out of options. They found Frank Yates, a desperate orphan needing money for his dying grandmother. They bought him, essentially.

And the most frustrating part? It worked. Cloud Lee miraculously recovered shortly after the wedding.

But in Joan’s mind, Frank Yates hadn't saved her daughter. He was just a tool, a bitter pill they had to swallow. He was a piece of medical equipment that had served its purpose and was now just taking up space. If it weren't for the complications of divorce laws and property division, she would have kicked him into the gutter years ago.

Comparing the mute, useless Frank upstairs to the shining, successful Starr sitting on her sofa, Joan felt a wave of nausea. It was like comparing a mud puddle to a diamond.

"By the way, Auntie," Starr asked, glancing around the room with polite curiosity. "Is Cloud Lee not home yet?"

Joan placed the steaming cup of tea in front of him. "The company is expanding, and there are so many issues to deal with. She’s a workaholic. I don't expect her back until ten o'clock."

Starr nodded thoughtfully. "I see. Hardworking as always. That's what I always admired about her." He paused, taking a sip of tea, his eyes narrowing slightly over the rim of the cup. "I heard rumors while I was abroad... that Cloud got married. Is her, ah... husband... not home?"

Joan’s face twisted into a grimace of distaste, as if she had swallowed a lemon. She jerked a thumb toward the ceiling. "That useless waste of space? He's upstairs. Probably sleeping. That's all he does. Eats, sleeps, and breathes our air."

Starr hid a smirk behind his teacup. "Auntie, may I ask... where does he work? What does he do for a living?"

The question was calculated. Starr knew exactly who Frank was. He knew about the Matrilocal Marriage. He knew about the mute "dog" of the Lee family. He just wanted to hear Joan say it. He wanted to twist the knife.

Joan’s temper, already short due to menopause and general bitterness, flared. "Work? Hah! He hasn't worked a day in three years. He’s a parasite!"

She suddenly tilted her head back and screamed at the ceiling, her voice shrill and piercing. "Frank Yates! We have a guest! Get your ass down here! Are you too ashamed to show your face? Get down here and pour tea!"

Starr watched with satisfaction. It’s exactly as my sources said, he thought. Cloud married a loser. A mute, live-in son-in-law who gets treated worse than the help. Perfect.

He took another sip of tea. A mute trying to find a corporate job? Please. He's barely human.

Upstairs, the clock was ticking closer to 9:00 PM.

Frank heard the screaming. He heard his name being butchered by Joan's screeching voice. But he couldn't move. The fire in his veins was spreading. His muscles were locking up as the Nine Cycles Star Technique began to rewrite his biology. Even if he wanted to obey, he was paralyzed by the encroaching transformation.

Silence answered Joan’s call.

Embarrassed by her lack of authority in front of Starr, Joan turned her wrath elsewhere. "Snow Lee! Snow! Your brother Starr is here! Come down and say hello! Don't be rude!"

A moment later, a door on the second floor clicked open. Snow Lee appeared at the railing of the mezzanine, looking down with an expression of utter boredom.

"Mom, why are you screaming like a banshee?" she complained. She glanced at Starr, her lip curling slightly. "Oh. Hi, Starr. You're back. Great. What’s the big deal?"

Snow Lee was a complex girl. She despised Frank for being weak, but she possessed a sharp intuition. She didn't like Starr Hall. There was something slick about him, something predatory behind that K-pop smile. He felt fake.

"Snow! Watch your tone!" Joan snapped, her face flushing red.

Starr stood up, buttoning his jacket, playing the peacemaker. "Auntie, please, don't get upset. It’s not worth damaging your health. Snow is just being spirited." He looked up at the girl with a forgiving smile. "And perhaps Cloud's husband isn't feeling well? Maybe he's shy?"

It was a subtle prod, a challenge wrapped in concern. Starr was dying to see this legendary loser with his own eyes.

Joan took the bait immediately. Her blood pressure spiked. "Shy? He's lazy! Snow, is Frank Yates back?"

"Yeah," Snow replied, leaning over the railing. "He came back when I did."

"Go get him," Joan commanded, pointing a manicured finger at Frank’s door. "Drag him out if you have to. I want him down here now."

"Ugh. Fine." Snow rolled her eyes. "Just wait."

She pushed herself off the railing and stomped toward Frank’s room. She was annoyed at everyone tonight—her mother for screeching, Starr for being fake, and Frank for existing.

Honestly, she thought as she approached his door, this guy is getting worse every day. Now he ignores Mom? Does he think he's the master of the house just because he locked his door?

She raised her hand to pound on the wood.

AAAAHHH!

Before her knuckles could make contact, a sound erupted from inside the room that froze the blood in her veins.

It wasn't just a shout. It was a guttural, terrifying scream of absolute agony. It sounded like a man being torn apart molecule by molecule.

Snow flinched, her hand hovering in the air. But then, the shock faded, replaced by a weary resignation. She lowered her hand and sighed, shaking her head.

"Great," she muttered to the empty hallway. "He's having another episode."

This wasn't new. The Lee family knew about Frank's "condition." Once a year, like clockwork, the mute would writhe in pain for a night. They had never called a doctor. They had never offered an aspirin. In the cold calculus of the Lee household, if the pain killed him, it would be a convenient solution to a lingering problem.

"Snow? What happened?" Joan shouted from downstairs. She had heard the scream too. "Is he hurting you? Did he do something?"

"No, Mom," Snow yelled back. "He's just doing his yearly freak-out thing."

"Well, check on him! Make sure he doesn't break the furniture!"

Snow huffed. "Fine!"

She grabbed the door handle. It was locked, but the lock was old and flimsy. She gave it a sharp twist and a shove, the mechanism clicking open.

"Hey, Frank, stop screaming, we have gues—"

The words died in her throat.

Snow stood in the doorway; her eyes widened until they hurt. Her brain struggled to process the visual information in front of her.

"AAAAHHH!"

This time, the scream came from Snow. It was a high-pitched shriek of pure terror that echoed through the entire villa. She stumbled backward, nearly tripping over her own feet, and turned to run.

"Snow!" Joan dropped her tea cup. The sound of shattering porcelain mixed with Snow's panic. "What is it?"

Thinking that Frank had finally snapped and attacked her daughter, Joan abandoned her dignity and charged up the stairs, her heels clattering violently. Starr Hall followed close behind, his curiosity piqued.

Joan reached the landing just as Snow collapsed against the wall, hyperventilating. Joan pushed past her and looked into the room.

What she saw stopped her dead in her tracks.

Frank Yates was there on the bed, but he didn't look human. His body was contorted into an impossible shape, muscles spasming violently under the skin. But that wasn't the worst part.

He looked as if he had been dipped in a vat of crude oil. A thick, black, tar-like substance was oozing out of every pore in his body. It coated him from head to toe, a glistening layer of sludge that smelled of rot and ancient decay. The only things visible in that mask of black filth were two eyes—wide, bloodshot, and burning with a terrifying, luminous intensity.

It was the body purging itself. It was the expulsion of three years of accumulated toxins, weakness, and suppression.

But to Joan and Snow, it looked like a scene from a horror movie. The mute had become a monster.

Starr Hall peered over Joan’s shoulder, his nose wrinkling at the foul stench wafting from the room. He saw the black sludge, the twisting limbs. But unlike the women, who saw only horror, Starr felt a sudden, inexplicable chill run down his spine. This wasn't a seizure. This wasn't a disease.

This was power. Raw, uncontrolled, and terrifying.

Frank opened his mouth, and though no sound came out this time, the air in the room seemed to vibrate. The Nine Cycles Star Technique had completed its first revolution.

The transition was over.