Chapter Text
The Lee Family had always been high in the societal ranks. Well respected, well known, always there at every event of note. Established in their position within the elite, a dynasty of powerful men and beautiful women. Their influence expanded far beyond their estate, one could assume that whatever fine establishment it was, the family had their finger on its pulse. Investments over investments were how their influence grew and thrived.
With well-kept gardens, neatly kept grounds, the Lee manor was the gem of the town. Even though the trip out there was a tad too long, perhaps a little tedious, people never shied away from attending the numerous events the family hosted there. It was always a spectacle, ballrooms filled with expensive clothes, glasses containing the finest of wines, clinking together in celebration of their town’s gracious hosts and the superiority of the higher class.
And for generations over generations, the family carried on as they always had - powerful, mighty.
Then one day, the morning papers arrived with news that would come to shock the entire town: The Lord and Lady Lee had passed in the most tragic of ways. An unknown stranger had broken into their home, murdering the parents in cold blood. There were whispers of how they had been found by the butler first thing in the morning. It must have been a true bloodbath. If rumour from within the estate was to be believed, the ancient carpet had to be completely replaced.
They left behind two sons, and the paper was happy to announce to the public that they were both unharmed in anything but their devastating grief. It was a stroke of luck much needed to brighten the gloomy news of the town losing their most beloved nobility. The Lee Family wealth passed onto such a well-mannered, upstanding and learned man as their eldest son Minho. A man of such fierce and proper values that he didn’t hesitate to put his younger brother first, even at the expense of his long-since-planned marriage to a fine lady of a high house.
The younger brother, a boy named Felix, had always been an odd one – the black sheep of the family. Neither here nor there, but never quite like the others. But under the guidance of his older brother, he too, had grown into a fine young man that the ladies swooned over and the gentlemen would like to give a firm handshake, and discuss business with over a glass of fine liquor and a cigar.
The two of them stepped into their roles as staple figures in the gentry, and after the appropriately long mourning period, an invitation was sent out to its most valued members. The status quo was restored, the mansion once again filled with life, with Lee Minho at the forefront of aristocracy; stable, dependable, traditional. And on top of that, a great host.
Chan is freezing. The thin sheen of sweat covering his skin catching on the cold air and sending shivers down the line of his spine. It’s the first thing that registers through the darkness, an eerie and frigid feeling mixing with the thudding of his heart in his chest.
The next thing he notices is the pain. A sharp ache all over his body. Sore muscles, locked joints from having stayed in one position for too long.
His brain is throbbing, headache pounding so furiously against his temples and forehead that he feels like his head might burst any second. It’s enough to make the feeling of fabric pressed against his closed eyelids feel rough when his face scrunches in a wince. The sound of his own voice seems so foreign to him. So far away, forced through an unfamiliar obstruction. Coarse linen, soaked from his own saliva. It digs painfully into the corners of his mouth; there’s a ringing in the back of his head that gets louder when he turns his head slightly.
He fights consciousness for a moment. Feels it slip from his grasp, again and again, but he tries to hold off the darkness threatening to pull him back under, tries to stay in the present. It’s like wading through an ocean of molasses, thick and gooey. Chan feels so heavy and powerless against the pull.
A lowly sound eventually manages to make it through to his senses, a steady drip of water hitting the ground somewhere to his right. The rhythm is slightly off, which makes it harder to focus on calming the erratic beating of his heart, the pounding in his head.
Splat.
Splat.
Splat.
The sound vibrates in his head, thrown back and forth in an echo inside his brain. Ricochets off the walls of his mind. Or maybe it’s an actual echo in this cold, foreign space. Maybe-
Chan doesn’t know how long he listens to the drip, drip, drip. Maybe hours, maybe days. Maybe only minutes. Time is meaningless. All he knows is that it’s long enough to make him startle when a new sound cuts through the constant, repetitive, maddening pseudo-familiarity of the drip. A heavy door falling shut, iron hinges creaking. Chan’s breath hitches, his heartbeat speeding up in his chest. Like a bird caught in a cage, fluttering wildly, desperately trying to break free.
He tries to still, tries to make out anything. Any new sounds.
The clicking of shoes against stone flooring. An almost imperceptible rustle of fabric. A voice humming a melody he doesn’t know. Low vibrations amplified by the echo of the room, or whatever this place is. His muscles twitch in fear as his fight or flight instinct kicks in– a response to every new sensation. Breath becoming laboured in time with the elevation of his heartbeat.
He searches his brain, frantic. Looks for a clue hidden in the darkness as to where he is, why he’s here. No luck. His memory is in pieces, tattered fragments that once made up a sharp mind.
All he knows is fear. All consuming, debilitating.
The humming draws closer, closer. Chan whimpers, cowers in on himself, an unsuccessful attempt at mounting any sort of defence. His arms are aching and useless, suspended above his head, wrists telling the tale of rusted metal clamped tightly around the jut of bone protruding there. The melody is so cheery, light, so out of balance with the dread taking over Chan’s entire being.
It monopolises his focus, the skipping quality of the rhythm, the deep tone, enough so that the sudden movement, a mere rustling of clothes and the clicking of the soles of shoes against the stone, that makes itself known from behind has his entire frame scrambling to get away. His knees knock against the hard surface below, his shoulders are pulled painfully as his balance falters and an agonised, hoarse yelp bursts from between his cracked lips, muffled by the sloppy linen pushing down on his tongue.
His mind is reeling. Questions of who’s there, where he is, what’s happening, never managing to make it past his lips before the thought is already gone, replaced by a new one. Chased away by a new wave of terror, drowned out by another startled sound.
The humming somewhere in front of him doesn’t break off, does not falter. Yet, close by, somewhere behind him, he hears someone else. Hears them walk, hears their steps, hears the rustling of their clothes. Hears them breathe, the sound amplified by the echo. And he smells them. It’s a sweet smell, too sweet, because Chan can clearly make out the biting chemical scent lingering beneath it.
It reminds him of death.
Somehow the silence that follows the eventual demise of the cheery tune is even worse. It makes Chan acutely aware of the rushing of his blood in his ears, of his heart trying to burst from his chest. The way it’s suspended in the air feels almost as dire as the way his body is suspended from what must be the ceiling. Charged, heavy, promising hurt, inescapable.
The voice is so impossibly close when it finally breaks the silence. A breath in his ear, a slight rasp colouring the sonorous notes of it. There’s not a doubt in Chan’s mind that this is the person who was humming. The weirdly giddy quality of the voice is so out of place in this dreary atmosphere.
“Oh? Hello there, sleepyhead! It’s not your time yet.”
Sudden, sharp pain shoots up the side of his neck, and he tries to get away, tries to- there’s a numb pressure underneath his skin, right where the pain is located. Then the pain is gone. Then everything is gone, the last thing he remembers is an unsteady;
Splat.
Splat.
Splat.