Hate to race lestappen

The Haunted House

Note: This chapter contains sensitive content. If you are easily triggered or would prefer to know specific warnings beforehand, please scroll to the end of the chapter for a detailed trigger warning.

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He woke because the pain was worse than dying.

For a moment—maybe longer—he thought he was already dead. His body felt weightless and heavy all at once, and there was nothing but darkness, everywhere, inside and out.

Then the cold hit him. Not just cold—soaking, shivering, skin-leaching cold, and the rain that had crept under his clothes had turned everything to lead. His limbs didn't work. His chest felt caved in, tight and broken like someone had torn him apart and left the pieces behind.

He couldn't see.

The taste in his mouth was copper and mud and blood. His lips were split open. His tongue was swollen. His jaw clicked wrong when he tried to move it.

He took a breath—just one—and it felt like knives through his ribs.

He choked. Gasped again. He was lying on concrete, soaked to the bone, face-down and twisted, and he didn't know why.

He didn't know anything.

Panic came in a flash of heat that overwhelmed the cold. It hit him hard and fast and terrifyingly clear.

Where was he?
Why couldn't he move?
Why was everything burning?

He shifted. His fingers scraped against gravel. One leg twitched, the other—nothing. His side screamed. So did his shoulder. He tried to lift his head and saw the world spin in a smear of streetlight, rain, and shadow.

Everything was too loud. The storm. The silence. His own heartbeat crashing like a drum inside his ears.

He didn't know what time it was.
Didn't know how long he'd been here.

He tried to call out. All that came was a wet, cracked sound.

He couldn't even remember what had happened.

The last thing he saw—he didn't know. The last thing he knew was the race. The podium. A blur of gold and champagne. The rain had been lighter then. The world still made sense.

Now he was broken on the ground in the dark, and no one was there.

His chest heaved, but there was no air. He dragged in a breath anyway. It tasted like rust and wet dirt. He tried to crawl but couldn't lift his arm. Tried to cry but didn't have the strength.

The pain got worse. His body was a battlefield. He could feel where he was bruised, busted, ripped open. Blood trickled into his eye. His nose had been bleeding—maybe still was. He couldn't tell.

He was going to die here.
Alone, in the fucking rain.

He let his face drop back to the ground. The cold concrete was almost soothing. He closed his eyes again—just for a second—and blacked out.

The second time he woke, it was to a scream.

"Charles?"

There was a thud of shoes on pavement. Water splashing. A voice breaking in pure panic.

"*Oh my God—*Charles—fuck—Charles, hey—"

He felt hands now. Hesitating. Hovering. One of them barely touched his shoulder, the other trembling above his cheek.

"Shit—shit—what the fuck—"

He blinked, barely. Light stung his eyes. The world was still spinning but not black anymore. Now it was blurry white and yellow and grey and red—definitely red.