4:43 PM – [Home Library]
Dolores returned with a quiet knock of porcelain tea set in hand, ghostly steam curling from the cups. "Here."
"Thank you." I said, settling into the chair as I took mine. The scent was faintly floral, laced with chamomile and something softer, like honeysuckle, trailing in the rising heat.
"You know, you don't have to help me with my paragraph. I can leave right now if you're not feeling well. Sorry about pressuring you, I thought it wouldn't take too much of your time."
"No," he said simply, "I want to help."
That should've reassured me, but the look in his eyes didn't match his tone. Something was tight around the corners of his expression. Still, I didn't press him.
"... Alright. Just don't hesitate to call it off, okay?"
I pulled out the rough draft I spent a measly 15 minutes on and offered it to him. He took it without a word.
.
.
.
??? – [Unknown Room]
"a ____ beaut __dy!"
A groan clawed out of me as my head throbbed. My wrists ached— bound tight to cold metal.
"Shh, she's waking. Good."
SLAP!
"Agh—!"
Pain lit up my face like fire, ears ringing like tuning forks struck too hard.
"There. Awake."
I blinked against a blinding white above and shadows below. As my vision adjusted, I saw a man. His face was hidden behind a surgical mask, his form covered in bone-white sterile gear.
Not a drop of blood on him— yet. His gloves were the kind you'd see in old medical documentaries, thick and powdery, clinging like second skin.
The light above me buzzed offensively, yet flickering like it struggled to stay present. The stickiness of my bound wrists and the metallic tang of fear in my mouth hit.
"...What?" I croaked.
He crouched to eye level. There was something about how he moved— slow, intentional. Like a butcher choosing where to make the first incision, "Just a question, really. How do you feel about Dolores?"
My brain scrambled for footing. Dolores—? Right. The tea. The library.
What the hell was happening?
SLAP!
"Answer, please. It's rude to ignore your host." His voice was calm, almost pleasant. It was the most terrifying thing I had ever heard.
My mouth was dry. I forced words out, "I— I don't know. I liked him. I thought he was a good person?"
"A crush then," he mused, as if commenting on the weather, "Shame."
He stood, eyes never leaving mine. Even from behind the mask, I could feel his full gaze—measured, clinical.
"Do you know how statistically rare true green eyes are?" he asked conversationally. "And yours... they're particularly vivid. Symmetrical. Sharp. They'd preserve well."
I froze.
"Beautiful things shouldn't be left to waste." He took a step closer. I tried to shrink back, the metal chair legs scraping against the concrete floor. The ropes bit deeper into my wrists.
"It's a pity. You would have been a good first for him. Clean. Presentable." The clinical assessment of the horror he was implying sent a wave of nausea through me. "Though, I suppose you still could be."
"... No thanks. I can just get to that part in college." A familiar voice rings out from the dark a few feet away.
"Look at her though, what a pretty girl. She looks like my college sweetheart; same blond hair and eye colour. She left me for another White guy because her parents didn't like 'oriental' men— the 90's were a different time." He didn't turn to look at his son. It seemed like he never needed to.
He sighed, a soft yet grating sound. "I've always wondered why you never brought anyone home. With your genetics... It's a waste."
The man rests his head on his hand before stepping closer to me, tapping a gloved finger to his chin. The sterile latex of his glove squeaked with the motion.
"Hmm, maybe I should keep her eyes for my collection. Since it's your first time here, why don't you do the dissecting? The more I look at her, the more striking the resemblance is." As he reaches for my eye area, I instinctively shrink back and close them, "Haha, even the way they flinch-"
BONK!
A sickening thud.
He collapsed, struck clean across the head by a blunt edge.
Dolores stood behind him, a heavy, leather-bound book clutched in his hands. His chest heaved, but his expression was terrifyingly placid. Empty. Like he was holding back something deeper.
"Sorry," he said quietly.
I breathed, "What the hell is going on? Why would your— why would he—? What about your mom?"
"This place isn't safe for you," Dolores said, "Especially with her sleeping downstairs."
My mind flashes to the mother. A too-perfect smile she now interprets differently.
He knelt and untied me carefully. His hands moved with a terrifying calm, with not a single shake. The burn of returning circulation set free part of my doom.
Then, after a pause, he handed me a scalpel from the tray beside the chair, "For insurance."
At the implication, my fingers trembled— but I took it.
Without another word, Dolores turned and began binding his father's limbs with the same ropes, his movements practiced, clinical, and devoid of emotion. He didn't look at the man's face. He worked with the detached focus of someone performing a necessary, and familiar, task.