RESIDENT EVIL VILLAGE - The House of Dimitrescu

Chapter 3 - Run, Manthing Run

The daughters of Dimitrescu left Y/N in a dark, cold cell somewhere deep within the bowels of the noble house. Where exactly he was, he didn't know, or how long he was to remain there, but before they left, the daughters made it very clear to him that their patience was not to be tried. 

'Don't cause me trouble,' Bela has whispered in his ear as they chained him to the wall, 'or you will soon wish you had died in the hall.' True to their mother's command, they didn't harm him anymore than she had requested, bar a few strikes across his face when he got too mouthy or outspoken, but they soon left him to hang in the cell and returned to the main castle. 

Y/N's throat stopped bleeding rather quickly one his racing pulse had slowed a little, and he soon began to debate how the hell he was going to escape this. He couldn't remain here, that was for certain. As beautiful and mysterious as the girls were, he didn't much fancy "being bled," prime vintage or no, and Y/N was strongly beginning to suspect that they partook in cannibalisms. Indeed, greater leaps of theory had been proven fact before. So, he needed to move. 

The chains that held him were old, rusted, much like the manacles that he had worn in the underground church, except these ones were embedded into the dank cellar wall, wrenching his arms apart and hanging him like on a crucifix. The smell of the cells were overpoweringly rank. The smell of sewage and waste filled the air, and underneath it all the damp, metallic smell of blood. 

However, the daughters had at least done Y/N the justice of leaving the key to his chains within eyesight, however it was still on the outside of the cell he inhabited, and despite the cell door being unlocked (the lock itself had rusted away decades ago) it was still far beyond his tethered reach.

Gingerly, Y/N tugged at the chains, wincing as the rusted metal dug into his skin, twisting around to look for something that he could perhaps pry them open with. The cell was small, barely long enough for him to lie down in, but there was a rather large, wooden table or rack positioned in the rough center of it. The rack was drenched in dark black bloodstains, and the manacles at the top and bottom hung open like dead mouths. 

Upon the table was an array of torture equipment; a mask with a metal face, spiked on the inside where the eyes and cheeks might have been, and padlocked at the back. There was a number of unpleasant-looking screws, crooked knives, and a long, thin, metal wire with bits of gore still stuck to it. There was a set of long, heavy shears, and a thick set of what appeared to be bolt cutters, but the teeth or which were stained with blood and gristle. 

Swallowing to steel himself, Y/N lifted his feet from the ground, gripping the chains tightly as they creaked and squeaked alarmingly, and began to kick off his trainers using his feet. Once both trainers had fallen to the floor, he very awkwardly began to pull the socks from his feet using his toes, which was made much more difficult by the slippery, slimy floor of the cells. However, after minutes of struggling fruitlessly, Y/N managed to peel both of his socks from his feet, and flexed his toes experimentally.

He had always been dexterous with his feet, picking things up and passing them to his hands whether out of laziness or just pure curiosity, but that experience proved to be lifesaving to him now. Gripping the chains tightly, Y/N lifted himself from the floor and stuck his legs out as far as they would go, his toes just scraping the edge of the heavy wooden table. 

After a moment of fumbling, he pressed his feet to the table, and gripping its edge between them, began to roughly yank the table towards him. The wooden legs screeched and scraped across the floor of the cell, and in the darkness beyond the small circle of candlelight Y/N had been given, he heard the distant groans as something stirred. He pulled more vigorously. 

When the table was close enough for him to reach over and grab the bolt-cutters, he fought quickly to maneuver them up to his hands. But his grip was dexterous and his fingers strong, and he managed to grip the head of the bolt cutters tightly in his fist, prizing open the teeth and fitting it to the chain around his wrist.