It was the faint hum that reached him first. Then light.
Bill opened his eyes slowly, the world around him blurred, his mind shrouded in fog.
A dull, sterile glow buzzed overhead, casting ghostly patterns across the white-tiled ceiling. The hum of electricity filled the silence, pressing against his skull like an unseen force. He blinked, disoriented. His body felt heavy, his limbs unresponsive.
A sharp pain pulsed at the back of his head, sending a wave of nausea through him. He groaned softly, shifting against the stiff sheets beneath him. The crinkling sound of the fabric against his skin was foreign—wrong.
Then realization struck him like a blade of ice. He was not in his bed. He was not at home. The thin, uncomfortable gown clinging to his skin confirmed it.
A hospital. But why?
"Where am I?" The words barely formed, drifting through his fogged mind like a whisper in an empty room.
He tried to sit up. Every movement was slow and painful, as though he had slept for weeks. His muscles ached with stiffness, his bones creaked in protest.
And underneath it all, something else moved within him—a deeper dread, raw and instinctive, telling him to run. It made no sense, yet it felt absolute.
His heart pounded heavily as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The cold tile floor sent a shiver up his spine, grounding him. He forced himself to breathe slowly, steadying the panic building in his chest.
The room was eerily empty. Only one hospital bed. One small table. No monitors, no machines, no sound of life.
Then he saw it.
A flower sat in a simple glass vase atop the table, its petals an unnatural shade of deep violet. What unsettled him most was the way it seemed to pulse faintly—as if breathing.
Alive. Watching.
Bill's breath caught. He tore his gaze away, suddenly feeling like an intruder in his own reality.
He turned toward the door. Beyond it stretched endless white hallways, lit by flickering fluorescent lights. No nurses. No patients. No voices. Only silence—thick, oppressive, waiting.
His fingers curled into trembling fists.
"Was I kidnapped? Is this some kind of experiment?" His thoughts raced, panic sharpening with every heartbeat.
For a fleeting second, the most absurd idea crossed his mind—aliens. He almost laughed, but the sound died in his throat.
No. This was real. Too real.
He needed to move.
He stepped into the hallway, each footfall echoing back at him, hollow and mocking. He turned a corner—and froze.
A sound. Soft. Familiar.
A humming melody.
His breath stopped. That tune. Delicate. Melancholic. A lullaby.
Suzan's lullaby.
His pulse roared in his ears, drowning reason.
"Lenoir…"
He ran.
His feet pounded against the floor, pain fading into background noise. The humming grew louder, guiding him through the maze of corridors. Doors flashed past, their signs unreadable in his tunnel vision. Time dissolved—seconds, minutes, he couldn't tell.
Then, suddenly, the humming stopped.
Bill halted, chest heaving, sweat beading down his temples. Silence pressed in again, heavier than before.
A door stood slightly ajar to his right. The sound had come from there.
His hand trembled as he pushed it open.
Warmth spilled out. The lighting was soft, golden. Shadows fell over furniture he recognized instantly. A wooden bookshelf. A plush armchair. A coffee table holding a vase of roses. The scent of vanilla and lavender filled the air.
It was their home. Or a perfect copy of it.
Bill staggered forward, disbelief twisting his thoughts.
"What is this?" he whispered. "Lenoir?"
No answer.
Then a soft click—followed by her voice. A recording. The same lullaby, looping endlessly.
Bill's knees hit the floor. A broken sound escaped his throat.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he whispered. "Who are you? Why am I here?"
No reply came. Only that haunting melody playing over and over.
Memories flooded him. The moment she died. The blood. The scream. The way the world went silent afterward.
Lenoir had been his only light. His only piece of happiness. His childhood had been stripped away the moment his parents died. Relatives swooped in like vultures, stealing everything—money, keepsakes, even the house. They left him with nothing but bitterness and the echo of their greed.
Lenoir had changed that. She had shown him what it meant to live, to feel, to love. And then she was gone.
He stared at the room around him—the illusion of home—and for a heartbeat, hope flickered. If someone had recreated this, and her voice was here… could she still be alive?
He wiped his tears away, forcing himself to stand. Determination replaced despair. He would not crumble. Not this time.
If he was trapped in this hospital, he would find her. Whatever it took.
Then something caught his eye.
A photograph lay on the bed.
He picked it up carefully. The image made his stomach drop.
It was a picture of him—of him killing Lenoir.
The photo slipped from his hand and fell to the floor without a sound. His body went rigid. His mind refused to accept what his eyes saw.
"No… this isn't real," he whispered. "This is a trick. A sick, twisted trick."
He pressed both hands against his face as dread rooted itself deep inside him. The air felt thick, his lungs heavy. He wanted to scream, to deny it, but the room itself seemed to whisper otherwise.
The walls began to darken. The light dimmed. The scent of vanilla and lavender disappeared. The lullaby warped, slowing until it was nothing but static.
Bill clawed at his head, desperate to wake up. He slammed his forehead against the wall once, twice, until pain blurred his vision.
Then he felt it—a weight behind him, a presence.
A sharp blow struck the back of his skull.
Pain.
And then—nothing.
His vision collapsed into darkness, his thoughts dissolving into the void.
As the last flicker of consciousness faded, a single, fragile thought passed through him.
"Maybe one day, I'll wake up in her arms again."
And the world went black.