Chapter Text
Just another day at work.
Elliot pulls on his work uniform, the fabric stiff and smelling faintly of detergent. He lets out a long, tired sigh as his eyes wander around his apartment. Four walls, bare of anything resembling life—no pictures, nothing personal on the walls. Just a bed, a table, and the bare essentials to get by.
He glimpses at his own reflection in the mirror by the door. His face is pale, his eyes rimmed with fatigue. He forces his lips upward into something that could pass as a smile, but it looks more like a grimace. He holds it for a few seconds, then lets it fall.
He plugs his earbuds in, and slings his bag over his shoulder, before he pushes the door open and steps into the morning air. His bicycle waits for him outside, leaning against the railing. He mounts it, the metal creaking under his weight, and starts to pedal toward work.
It’s been like this for months now. Cycling to work, working until he’s numb, cycling home. Repeat. He’s alone—always. Work had become his lifeline, his way of drowning himself before everything else swallowed him whole.
He misses his family. He hates this feeling of emptiness.
When he was younger, he dreamed—of cooking, of starting a little restaurant. He could almost still see it—a warm kitchen, laughter spilling out the doors, the smell of broth and spices filling the air. But that dream had crumbled. It was just a waste of time, and nothing worth pursuing now.
"Another day, and things will get better," he used to say—something he would always tell himself. But even that belief was fading. The more he repeated it, the less he believed it.
Still… he has to have hope.
At the junction, the light flicks green. He presses forward, pedaling harder, the wheels humming beneath him. Then—headlights flash at him, blinding, way too close for comfort. His blood runs cold as he turns his head, just in time to see the frame of a truck charging through.
Bang!
Pain explodes through his body, white-hot and unrelenting. He’s on his back, staring at the sky that suddenly seems too far away. His ears ring. His vision blurs.
What just happened? The light was green… it was green, wasn’t it?
He tries to sit up, but he can't bring himself to move. His chest burns with every shallow breath. Voices cut through the ringing—shouts and screams surround him.
“Someone call an ambulance!”
He can’t feel his hands—he can’t feel anything. He shuts his eyes, telling himself it will be fine.
It wasn’t.
“It is not your time yet."
And in the darkness, a light emerges, blinding his vision. He gasps, his eyes snapping open—only to stare at a different world entirely. Cold air bites at his skin. He’s covered in snow, the sensation icy and real—this was no dream. He staggers upright—or tries to. His body protests, and he collapses back into the white.
What… where is he?
Around him stretches an endless forest, decaying trees among the horizon. His blood spills freely, staining the snow crimson. He has to get help. Maybe this was just a bad dream.
Every movement burns, but he crawls forward, desperate. He continues, until he hears more voices, drifting towards him. He hears the crunch of footsteps. A figure dressed in all black appears, and is running towards him.
“Help… me…” Elliot croaks, the word barely audible against the snow.
A stranger beside him kneels, cloaked in shadow. "Your grace, you’re bleeding! And we couldn’t possibly carry—”
At that moment, Elliot loses consciousness.
A dream. This is just a bad dream. Please just let it be—
When Elliot wakes, it isn't to the beeping of a hospital room. He hears no monitors, no hard bed under his body. Instead, there are soft sheets, and a quiet breathing. His whole body aches, sore and heavy.
“I know you’re awake.”
He shoots up with a start, but immediately groans in pain. His head throbs. Slowly, his eyes scan the vicinity, until they find the source of the voice—it’s a man, standing at his bedside, dressed in a crisp butler’s uniform. A white top hat rests upon his head. He’s looking at him, his gaze sharp and piercing.
“Why have you come here, intruder?”
Elliot stares back. His throat feels dry, and his mind is racing, scrambled with thoughts. “...Where am I?” Then, almost without thinking, he utters, “Can you pinch me?”
The butler blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
“Please,” Elliot insists. “Just pinch me.”
The man obliges, giving his arm a sharp squeeze. Elliot flinches, bracing for him to snap awake—back to his apartment, back to his bike—hell, even the hospital! But nothing changes.
Did he really die? Is this… the afterlife…?
“Perhaps you are not of sound mind,” the butler mutters, shaking his head.
The butler seems to want to say more, but a knock at the door interrupts them. “Consigliere? May I come in?”
“You may enter,” the butler replies, his gaze finally drifting away from Elliot.
Another man steps inside, dressed in the attire of a physician, his furry black hat pulled low. His smile is polite, a professional one. He extends a hand. Elliot accepts it automatically, his own hand trembling.
“It’s time for your check-up, sir,” the physician says warmly.
Elliot glances down, only now realizing he’s no longer in his uniform. Instead, he wears a loose bathrobe, foreign and way too expensive for someone like him.
Consigliere frowns. “I believe he is not of sound mind, Soldier.”
“We’ll see.” Soldier crouches, examining Elliot’s head. “Can you hear me clearly, sir?”
“Yes!” Elliot blurts, way too quickly. Great, now they think he’s lost it. “Sorry, I just…” He trails off, overwhelmed.
The examination passes in a blur—he conducts tests, pokes and prods here and there, and asks so many questions. Finally, the physician, Soldier stands, nodding with satisfaction.
“Physically, you seem alright. With lots of rest, you should recover.”
“Thank you,” Elliot whispers softly.
Soldier nods courteously, before leaving the room. Now, only Elliot and the butler—Consigliere—remain. He stands at the side, almost scrutinizing him.
“You must be hungry,” he murmurs at last. “I’ll bring something.”
Elliot tries to protest, but the man is already gone, returning moments later with a steaming bowl of soup. Elliot lifts it to his lips and sips. It tastes stale, dull, but he forces it down, grateful for the meal, and the warmth it provides.
Between mouthfuls, he asks curiously, “How did I get here, anyway?”
“The Duke found you,” Consigliere replies flatly. “You collapsed in the snow—you must have had a death wish. If he hadn’t taken pity on you, you’d be dead.”
Lucky, huh? Elliot isn’t sure he believes that.
“I’ll leave you now to rest. Don’t do anything reckless.”
With a huff, Consigliere leaves the room. Now left alone, Elliot stares into the bowl, the soup cooling in his hands. His mind reels, struggling to make sense of everything happening around him.
He got hit by a truck. Apparently there was a Duke, who saved him from dying. Honestly, this felt like one of those trashy novels he used to read online, the ones he laughed at for being so ridiculous.
Except this wasn't funny at all—it’s real.
Did he really die? Hopefully not.
He sets the bowl aside, leaving the soup unfinished, before sinking back into the sheets. His eyelids grow heavy, nearly exhausted from the day’s events. Maybe if he closes his eyes, he’ll wake up where he belongs. Maybe this was a bad dream, and his mind was playing tricks on him.
He hopes so.