The insistent drumming of rain against the unseen roof was the only sound in the silent basement as Abigail returned, her face pale despite the momentary relief of using the surprisingly clean toilet. The small bathroom, tucked away in a corner she hadn't noticed before, was starkly modern: pristine white tiled walls and floors, a spotless sink with chrome fixtures, and a securely nailed-down window offering no view of the outside. There was nothing remotely useful for defense or for freeing the chained man.
A shiver ran down her spine as she stepped back into the dimly lit basement. Oliver stood just outside the doorway, his lean figure framed against the faint light filtering from above. He offered a gentle, almost welcoming smile that did little to ease her unease.
"Come with me, Abigail," he said softly, gesturing down a narrow corridor she hadn't explored before. He led her past the basement door and into an open, unexpectedly beautiful space. Gone was the damp, musty smell of the basement, replaced by the fragrant aroma of cooked meat.
Abigail's eyes widened in surprise. The area was a stylish blend of kitchen and living room, with sleek black couches arranged around a modern coffee table. Behind them stood a long, elegant dining table set for two. The walls were painted in muted tones, adorned with abstract art, and the lighting was soft and warm, a stark contrast to the cold, harsh conditions of the basement. It felt like stepping into another world.
Oliver gestured to the dining table. "Please, have a seat." He moved with an easy grace to the opposite end, where a plate laden with a perfectly seared steak sat waiting. A bottle of red wine and two glasses completed the setting.
Abigail remained standing for a moment, her mind reeling from the sudden change in environment. She finally hesitantly sat down at the far end of the long table, her gaze fixed on Oliver across from her. She then glanced down at the identical dish before her, the sight of the rich, red meat triggering a sudden, stark memory of Harry's grey, lifeless form. Her face paled.
Oliver, seemingly oblivious to her distress, picked up his fork and knife. "Please, try it," he said gently, looking directly at her as he began to cut a piece of his own steak. He chewed slowly, his cloudy blue eyes never leaving her. Abigail forced a weak smile. "Thank you," she whispered, "but I'm not very hungry right now."
Oliver's smile didn't waver, but his gaze intensified. "Nonsense. You must be famished. Please, try just a bite." His tone held a gentle insistence that felt anything but optional.
Surprised and slightly scared by his unwavering attention, Abigail picked up her knife and fork with trembling hands. She carefully cut a small, triangular piece of the steak, securing it with her fork. She took a tentative bite and began to chew slowly, Oliver watching her every movement in silence.
As she swallowed, her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Despite her apprehension, the steak was incredibly flavorful and tender. "This is... very good," she commented, a genuine note of surprise in her voice.
Oliver chuckled softly, a pleased look on his face. "I'm so glad you think so." He watched as she hesitantly took another bite, then another, her initial fear slowly being replaced by the undeniable enjoyment of the food.
He smiled reassuringly. "And don't worry, Abigail," he said, his voice calm and even, "it's not human meat. You can relax."
A wave of relief washed over her at his words. She took a larger bite of the steak, the rich flavor satisfying the gnawing hunger she had been trying to ignore. After a moment, she looked up at Oliver, her curiosity piqued. "Why am I here?" she asked, her initial fear returning, though slightly subdued.
Oliver leaned back in his chair, his gaze intense and unwavering. "I simply wanted to... talk, Abigail. To get to know you."
Abigail blinked in surprise. "Get to know me?" She managed a small, nervous laugh. "With all due respect, Mister Oliver, I'm flattered, but mutant psychopaths – or mutants in general, really – aren't exactly my type."
Oliver chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm. "Ah, but Abigail, I'm not a mutant." He paused, his cloudy blue eyes gleaming with an unsettling light. "And neither are you."
Abigail looked at him in confusion, her fork halfway to her mouth. "What do you mean?"
Oliver leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I'm a Reaper, Abigail."
Abigail stared at him blankly for a moment. "A Reaper? As in... the Grim Reaper? Death?"
Oliver nodded slowly, a small, knowing smile on his lips. "Indeed. I was created by my… creator to reap souls. But… years after her… disappearance…" His smile widened, "I stopped following the rules. Instead I found more personal methods… much more rewarding." He gestured around the beautifully furnished room. "Taking my… unique guests… to a proper dinner table, for instance. It's a rare treat, reserved for the truly special."
The word "unique" hung in the air, sending a shiver down Abigail's spine. She felt his intense gaze boring into her, making her breath catch in her throat. A cold sweat broke out on her palms, and a blush crept up her cheeks.
"Are you going to kill me?" she finally managed to ask, her voice barely a whisper.
Oliver's smile softened. "No, Abigail. Not at all."
"Then... what do you want from me?" she pressed, her heart pounding against her ribs.
Oliver rose from his chair and slowly walked around the table until he stood beside her. He reached out a pale, gentle hand and placed it on her cheek. His touch was surprisingly cool and soft, yet it sent a wave of heat through her. Their eyes locked, his cloudy blue gaze holding an unnerving intensity. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a soft, almost caressing murmur.
"I want you to be mine, Abigail."
Abigail recoiled from his touch, a knot of fear tightening in her chest despite the surprisingly gentle pressure. "You're... you're crazy," she whispered, her voice trembling, pulling her face away from his hand.
Oliver chuckled softly, stepping back slightly, his cloudy blue eyes reflecting a strange mix of amusement and something else, something that felt unsettlingly like genuine longing. "Oh, I know, Abigail," he replied, his tone conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. "I know I probably sound crazy, stupid even. But... I really do feel a connection between us. Something... different." He tilted his head, his gaze intense.
Abigail stared at him, speechless for a long moment, her initial fear battling with a growing sense of confusion. The change in setting, the elaborate meal, his strange pronouncements... it was all so surreal. Finally, she found her voice, her tone barely a whisper. "After... after these few nights... I... I have been feeling strange about you too," she admitted, her cheeks flushing again, this time not entirely from fear. "Not in a fearful way, not exactly... more like a... desire."
Oliver's lean form tensed almost imperceptibly. He leaned closer, his cloudy blue eyes widening slightly, a hopeful anticipation flickering within their depths. "Yeah?" he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Abigail met his gaze, a small, hesitant smile finally touching her lips. It was a smile tinged with uncertainty, but it was a smile nonetheless.
A look of genuine happiness spread across Oliver's face. He reached out, pulling her gently from her chair and into a soft embrace. "I knew you liked me back," he murmured, his voice filled with a childlike joy.
As he hugged her, Abigail's hand, still clutching the fork from the steak, moved slowly, deliberately. The metal glinted faintly in the soft light as she raised it, the prongs aimed directly at Oliver's side. With a sudden, sharp movement, she plunged the fork deep into his side, right into his lung.
Oliver yelped, a sharp, surprised cry of pain tearing from his throat. His grip on Abigail loosened instantly. She shoved him away with surprising strength, sending him stumbling back and collapsing to the floor with a heavy thud, his hand clutching at the wound.
Abigail didn't hesitate. She turned and sprinted towards the archway that presumably led back to the basement stairs and the front door. Her bare feet pounded against the smooth wooden floor as she scrambled through the opening and raced up the rickety wooden stairs. Reaching the top, she fumbled with the unfamiliar doorknob, finally managing to twist it open.
She flung the door open and burst out of the house, the early morning air, cold and damp at around 3-5 AM, hitting her face like a shock. "Help!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, her voice echoing in the pre-dawn quiet. "Someone help me!" She stumbled onto the street, her eyes darting around frantically for any sign of life.
Behind her, Oliver, clutching his side, had already pulled the fork out, his white shirt now stained crimson. There was no other mark on the fork, no sign of his blood. He reached the front door just in time to see Abigail running further down the street, her screams piercing the stillness.
Cursing under his breath in annoyance, Oliver extended his left palm in her direction. He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp and distinct in the quiet morning air. Abigail stumbled, her body suddenly stiffening before she dropped forward onto the wet pavement, her screams abruptly cut short.
Oliver cursed again, louder this time. Just then, a light flickered on in the house across the street, and the front door creaked open. A man, possibly in his forties and wearing a blue robe, stepped out, looking around in confusion. "What's going on out here?" he called out, his voice groggy with sleep.
Oliver quickly composed himself, feigning a confused expression. He shrugged, raising his hands slightly. "I don't know," he said, his voice matching the man's confusion. "I heard a woman calling for help, so I came out to see what was happening."
Another door opened in the same house, and a woman in a dark grey tank top, black sleep shorts, and slippers emerged, greeting the man. "Anthony? What is it?" She looked around, then her eyes landed on Abigail's still form on the ground. "Oh my god!"
Anthony and Victoria rushed across the street, Oliver following close behind, pretending concern. They reached Abigail, who lay motionless on the pavement.
"Oh my heavens," Victoria gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "What happened?"
"I don't know," Oliver repeated, shrugging again. Anthony echoed his sentiment, his eyes darting around suspiciously.
"Should we call the cops?" Victoria asked, her voice trembling.
"I don't think that will be necessary," Oliver interjected smoothly. "I can shelter her for the time being until she wakes up."
Victoria immediately disagreed, shaking her head. "No, no, that's not right. She might be really scared waking up in a stranger's house, especially after screaming like that." Anthony nodded in agreement.
"Yeah," Anthony added, looking at Abigail's unconscious form. "Better to call the cops. We don't know where she came from. For all we know, she could be a mutant who just got her powers. Hell, what if she's the one who caused that Hamilton explosion on Sunday?"
Victoria rolled her eyes and sighed. "Anthony, you're being paranoid. That explosion was seven days ago, and the news said it was a gas leak."
"A gas leak?!" Anthony scoffed. "The damn military showed up! You're an idiot if you believe that was a gas leak."
"Hey, hey," Oliver cut in, trying to redirect the conversation. "Let's focus on what we need to do with her right now."
"He's right," Victoria said. "Oliver, why don't you pick her up and we'll take her to our house? I'll call the cops and let them know what happened, and they can take it from there." Anthony nodded his agreement.
Oliver, forcing a smile, agreed. He carefully picked up Abigail's unconscious body and followed Victoria, Anthony leading the way, towards their house across the street, cursing himself inwardly for his slip-up and the unexpected turn of events.