It started as a gentle pressure- an indiscernible, minor throbbing at the base of the neck.

It was a pressure that couldn't decide whether it wanted to transition into a full-blown headache, or remain as it was- a reminder to tread lightly.

Emerson's eyes slowly fluttered open- his completely gray, youthful eyes ponderously swept the surroundings.

He couldn't believe it- he was sitting at the wood grain dinner table of his childhood home; there were so many memories idling on the periphery of his consciousness as he took in the table's appearance and its contents: a pristine, white-glowing plate sat before him- laden with a colorful amalgam of morphing, indistinguishable foods. It was almost as though the food was covered in a thin layer of some opaque material. The silverware on either side of the plate was as he remembered it- an edged, stainless steel design. He, however, did not care about the strange, oddly familiar food shapes, or that the rest of the kitchen and living room was shrouded in an impenetrable darkness. He only had eyes for the table's other occupants.

His mother and father- their mature complexions crystal clear compared to the muted surroundings.

He couldn't help but smile, warmth blossoming in his chest and eyes as he silently observed them talking- their lips moving, with no sound.

But he knew what they were talking about just by their smiles- he could remember those conversations as though they had happened yesterday.

Those dinners were some of his fondest memories. He could still taste the warm, delicious food after a long day of school and organizational work at the local library. The way his mom always found a way to provide comfort and levity, no matter the situation- sometimes she would even pour him a few tablespoons of red wine with a wink. His father's infectious, booming laughter that always overshadowed any problems Emerson may have accumulated throughout the day. It almost felt like Christmas dinner every night, and holidays with their extended family was even more energetic and joyous, if that were possible.

It wasn't all sunshine and daisies, of course. But Emerson made an effort, a choice, to focus on the good- the bad was only as powerful as you allowed it to be. And if you weren't careful, it could become very powerful...

A sudden, intense pang of an indescribable hollowness pervaded his heart.

The scene before him was something he dearly missed- something that was long lost and existed only here, only now. A chance that didn't come often enough. A chance...

He opened his mouth to speak- silence.

He wasn't about to let that stop him.

He placed his hands onto the table- preparing to push back the chair and stand up to go hug them, when he noticed an odd ache in his throat. His little brows furrowed as he took a moment, focusing on himself, and noticed just how dry his mouth was. And not only his mouth, but his tongue felt like an old, shriveled sponge. He swallowed, hoping that some saliva would help, only for a horrifically painful, scratchy sensation to surge down his throat as though two pieces of sandpaper were holding a boxing match.

And it was while frantically searching around the table for something to help alleviate the pain, when he noticed a tall glass of icy water that hadn't been there before, sitting beside his plate. He leaned forwards against the table's hard edge and grabbed it up with both small hands- the ice tinkling against the glass and a cool, refreshing sensation radiating through his palms as he tipped the glass to his cracked lips and... nothing. His mouth and tongue remained bone dry, while the ache in his throat angrily pulsed as though it were similarly upset by the development.

And before he could try sipping again, a tickling sensation grew in his chest, and before he knew it- he was overcome by a dry, wheezing fit of coughing. Once his throat couldn't have felt dryer, and ached more profoundly than he thought was possible, he tried once took a sip with shaking hands- some of the cool water flowing past the sides of his mouth and the glass's edge, spilling over his fingers. Nothing! Why couldn't he taste it- why was it not helping?! The aching sensation pulsed once more, causing him to wince and almost drop the glass.

No, he wouldn't give up- he could do this, he could solve this!

He inspected the glass with resolute panic- knowing that perhaps his diligent effort would amount to nothing, but also knowing that not trying wasn't an option.

The water level was lower- he was clearly drinking it! Right? He felt nothing, but he was drinking it! Pain and confusion warred across his face, when the glass suddenly vanished from his hands, reappearing beside the now-empty plate.

Only this time, there was no ice, no condensation, and just a few measly drops of some murky liquid at the bottom.

RUMBLE!

The dining room began violently shaking as what sounded like two colliding mountains thunderously dominated the space while hundreds of deep, crimson-glowing cracks spread across the dining room walls.

Silently screaming his throat even more ragged than it was, Emerson covered his head with his arms as chunks of drywall rained from the ceiling and the rustic chandelier over the table precariously swayed before dislodging and crashing onto the table, cracking it in half and throwing shattered glass and ceramic everywhere.

The walls came tumbling down and the entire ceiling collapsed in a deafening roar.

... ... ...

Suffocating darkness...

... ... ...

Rich, open air...

A balmy heat...

Emerson slowly lowered his arms, a bold brightness assaulting his eyelids. He carefully opened his eyes- a deep seated fear for what awaited him clenching his heart in an icy fist.

His face lit up with pleasant surprise! The sight which greeted him was anything but what he expected: he and his family were sitting at the same dinner table- completely repaired, though without any plates or cutlery.

There was only the single glass, now half-filled with brownish sand and small rocks.

But even that couldn't dampen the surprise and happiness he felt when seeing his family safe and sound. In fact, it took him a few more seconds to realize they were no longer at home.

They were in the middle of a desert- the sun hung overhead, mercilessly bearing down on the land.

He.... recognized this place! This was where... he looked at the distant mountain range, its form somewhat mirage-like and indistinct, then looked left- finding the small rock formation of stacked stones he and his father had made on their monthly hike. He felt a strong urge to get closer.

He made to leave his seat, only to find that he couldn't move his arms or legs. He tried bending forward again- nothing. Not even a tingle of feeling. He could only move his head. He looked to his parents in a panic, but they were acting as though nothing was out of place- his father reading something on his phone while his mother cautiously trimmed a single, potted rose with small scissors.

He frantically called to them to get their attention- no sound. And no reaction from them.

Despair started setting in as the pain in his throat only grew worse, and his mouth was so dry.

What could he do? He didn't know what to do anymore. Why couldn't he move, or speak?

He wanted to cry. He looked at the glass again, hoping to try and drink whatever water was left at the bottom. The last of his hope was extinguished: the glass was filled with sand and small rocks, a thin film of dust coating the exterior in place of condensation. Emerson was truly panicking now- the ache in was reaching the point where darkness was beginning to creep in at the corners of his vision despite the bright day. And why were his parents not helping? He felt so helpless!

"That won't help, you know?"

Emerson's head snapped over to look at his father with eyes wide in surprise and hope.

His father met his look with one of knowing pity, his slight smile conveying love and affection, he reached over and casually knocked the glass over, spilling sand across the table- a small puff of dust rose into the air before vanishing into the open air.

His mother was no longer at the table.

"Sometimes, the answers are right in front of us," his father said wistfully, "and other times... well," he casually rested his forearm onto the table; his posture facing Emerson; his eyes on the spilled sand, "other times, we have to dig deep and search for them." His father's soft gaze shifted to meet Emerson's- wizened gray staring into innocent gray.

"Nothing in life is easy, or certain, kiddo." He reached over and ruffled Emerson's hair.

"But if there is one thing I'm certain of, it's that you're my boy." A smile lit up his father's face.

"And you will always find a way to move forward, no matter what. I know you will."

Emerson felt his eyes grow wet- something warm slid down his cheek. His father reached over and wiped it away, his thumb coming away smeared in bright red blood.

'How?' Emerson silently asked, his eyes desperate. Imploring. He needed to know. His father seemingly understood the look, or maybe he'd even heard him somehow.

"How, huh? Well-"

Rumble- Clap- Boom!

The sound of thunder drowned out his father's words- a bank of dark clouds suddenly appeared in the sky, choking out the sunlight.

His father's expression turned serious as he glanced up at the gathering storm. He sternly looked back at Emerson.

"Alright, I need you to listen to me now- this is very important, you hear?" Emerson frantically nodded with wide eyes.

A flash of lightning!

"I need you to wake up, Em." His father demanded- eyes glowing with ethereal light.

Rumble- Clap- Boom!

"Wake up!"

Emerson bloodshot eyes flew open as he reflexively rolled onto his side- heaving for breath against a fiery agony in his throat, and dryly coughing as spasms wracked his lungs. The cold, unyielding ground dug into his left shoulder and hip, agitating his aching muscles. The gentle orange flames of a crackling campfire cast dancing shadows across his sickly pale face. He softly moaned- lightly covering his face with a hand to shield his overly sensitive eyes- the simple movement sent the world spinning.

He felt sick. The kind of sick where all you could do was curl beneath a blanket and ride out the debilitating symptoms, hoping against hope that the medicine you took would either knock you out or at least make the pain go away. A fever burned at his forehead; his stomach squirmed with nausea; a heated migraine pounded at his temples; fatigue pulsed through his muscles, and severe lethargy made him want to shut his eyes forever and drift into a coma. Anything to not exist in his own body.

"Mornin' sunshine!" The chipper, masculine voice stabbed into his ear drums like ice picks. Emerson gave a strangled cry- his mind so incredibly scrambled from the pain and exhaustion that he couldn't process the voice belonged to a stranger, or that he was no longer in the police station.

Emerson winced as a sudden, searing ache assaulted his head just below either ear.

Radiant auburn hair!

He grimaced as the vivid image suddenly flashed through his mind's eye.

Piercing, brilliant chips of glowing red staring into his soul- a blood curdling, feral scream!

Emerson violently flinched, his body uncontrollably, sporadically spasming as he curled deeper into the fetal position- the disjointed memories playing through his mind like a sadistic slideshow.

Razor-sharp nails carving into his skin- scalding hot blood flowing down his chest!

A shudder ran down his abdomen as he swore he could feel those phantom nails digging into him. He gingerly rested the side of his forehead onto the cold ground at an angle as the pain grew worse, gradually radiating up to the back of his head.

Heart-stopping, pulse-pounding fear...

His eyes squeezed shut, his brows furrowed as he shakily exhaled.

Liam's fearful screams of agony- the wet crunching of bone...

Emerson's right hand clenched into a fist- his fingers digging into the cold dirt. He was in so much pain- he started shivering. What was this- what was happening?

"Hmph, yeah, that figures." The same voice grumbled- Emerson could vaguely discern some movement.

"Here, take it- on the house." Emerson vaguely heard something squishy thump onto the ground near his chest.

"So," the old voice grunted, "you must have one hell of a story, tough guy."

Emerson curled in on himself more. The world wouldn't stop spinning. A migraine pounded at his temples. His throat fiercely ached, and swallowing proved almost more painful than the deep aching in his muscles and joints.

He couldn't think straight through the overwhelming wreck that was his body- he heard the stranger's words, but he didn't hear them.

"Hey, kid?" The man snapped his fingers- the crisp sound causing Emerson to wince. The man's voice drilled into his ears. He groaned into his hand when a particularly painful ache pulsed behind his eyes.

The crackling heat of the campfire was too warm, too loud, too close. He heard dozens of small twigs snapping in the distance, and the near-silent huffing, chuffing, and scraping of wildlife sniffing, munching, and treading through the snow. The wind flowed through the rustling trees- whispering.

"Listen, I already severed her connection- go ahead and eat, you're safe now."

'Please, be quiet... please...' Emerson silently begged to himself, pressing his cheek to the dirt in aggravation- the pain hadn't abated in the slightest, but he'd grown somewhat accustomed to its intensity and was able to think beyond it to a minor extent.

Couldn't this guy tell how much pain he was in? Actually, why wasn't he calling an ambulance?... Wait, where even was he?

He slowly blinked against the harsh campfire glare which only made his headache that much worse, but he persevered until he could keep his eyes slitted enough to examine the surroundings.

An older man who appeared to be in his mid-sixties sat on a snow-dusted log on the other side of the campfire.

The man himself was the embodiment of a 'silver fox'. With medium length grayish-white hair in a stylish comb over that was both charming and rugged, yet refined. He wore a navy overcoat and suit with a matching scarf and black leather boots- a small glimmer on his left wrist gave away the presence of either a bracelet or watch, though Emerson couldn't tell from his angle.

'Who is this guy? And where... are we?'

Emerson moved past the pain with a force of will he didn't know he possessed, truly taking notice of his surroundings. They appeared to be in a small clearing, close to the dark, foreboding treeline- it was late at night. He... didn't remember how he'd gotten here.

A small stick popped and cracked within the shifting flames.

Emerson's brows furrowed as he squinted against the bright... actually, the campfire was rather dim- softly burning and low to the ground, giving off little to no heat. He could have sworn... it didn't matter. The small campfire was the least of his worries. Because here he was, as weak as a newborn, out in the woods with a stranger in the middle of the night, and with no memory of how he'd gotten there.

His mind immediately went to the absolute worst case scenario- because unless he was misreading the situation, he was dead. So, so, so very dead.

'Damn.' He thought morosely, the bodily pain muting any emotional fear response he might've had to being drugged, kidnapped, and either murdered, violated, or soon to be sold into some human trafficking ring. His only wish was that he could remember how he'd gotten into this situation, but unfortunately, whatever this creepy, disturbingly-handsome, old bastard had given him was the good stuff. He couldn't remember jack- and found the idea of memory loss surprisingly more frightening than his bleak future.

The old man must have noticed the expression on Emerson's face because he offered a 'reassuring' smile.

"Honestly, kid, I'm not going to hurt you- went to the trouble of saving you from those petulant Anarchs, didn't I?"

Emerson couldn't think of a response as the coarseness in his throat suddenly inspired another coughing fit, which only further irritated it and caused him to cough even harder- his limbs shaking and chest shuddering with every choked, shallow breath. The pain grew to unbearable proportions once more- clouding his thoughts.

The old man's care-free complexion darkened as he truly took notice of just how poor a shape the young man was in.

"Caine's ballsack, kid- she really did a number on you, huh?" He clicked his tongue.

"When was the last time you had a drink? You look just about ready to keel over."

Emerson piteously moaned, squeezing his eyes shut and curling his elbows and knees close to his chest while tucking in his head.

'Let this be over... dear god, please, just kill me.' He begged- he couldn't handle it anymore. He didn't care anymore- he wanted it all to stop.

The gentle touch of a small hand against his back... the vague, phantom sensation of lips beside his ear...

" 'Keep going... handsome.' " A voice...

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

" 'Grant him... release...' " A whisper...

His right eye violently twitched.

" 'Kill them... kill them all...' " Beautiful, fading laughter...

His hands shakily clenched into fists against his chest.

" 'Come find me...' " An echoing command, thrumming deep within him. Thump.

Emerson's entire body jolted as though struck, quickly devolving into a whole-body shivering- a single, blackened vein bulging against his neck; unknown to him.

"Aw, hell." The old man sighed, "Alright, alright, hold on."

Emerson felt a pair of hands gently raise his limp upper body off the ground and carefully drag him across the snow to lean against something hard. The world was still dangerously spinning even though his eyes were squeezed shut, and just being moved caused shooting pain in his limbs and his muscles to ache. He really felt like he was dying.

And at this point, he hoped the old man would get upset with him, smack him around, and the additional trauma would send him into a coma or outright kill him. He was done- he didn't care anymore.

He heard the distinct sound of tearing plastic, and the crunch of snow beneath boots. The light from the campfire dimmed even further as the old man crouched in front of him- Emerson sensed movement in front of his face; felt something smooth and cold push against his mouth.

"Slowly now, got it?"

Emerson didn't respond, nor did he open his mouth. He even moved his face somewhat away from whatever the hell the old man was offering. He wasn't about to let this asshole give him anything else.

He heard the old man sigh again, only this one contained a profound world-weariness.

"Look, I know what she did to you, and I can't imagine what that must have felt like. It's deplorable. It's a violation of everything we are, and undermines everything we strive for." Emerson heard real anger bleeding into his tone, but he was also... very confused.

"But," the old man's voice hardened to cold stone, "I'll be damned if I let you embrace your final death because of it- life isn't easy, life is the acceptance of suffering. And we bear the burden of immortal life- you're going to give it all up because of one night?"

Even through the thick fog of pain, Emerson had to hand it to the guy, he could spin being kidnapped and sold into a sex trafficking ring.

"I can see it in you, kid. That spark. That drive- it's not completely gone now, is it? So here's what's going to happen..." Emerson heard some movement in front of him again as the old man shifted in his crouched position, then he head the distinct sound of sloshing.

'What is that?' He wanted to open his eyes, but now there was an aching, burning sensation behind them that wouldn't let him. He almost couldn't even feel them through the pain.

"You're going to feed and recover within minutes- I promise you that."

"All that needless pain? Gone." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that."

Emerson was suddenly very tempted- hoping to die so the pain stops compared to actually being offered a solution... But he also didn't know what the old man was trying to give him. He couldn't trust him. But this pain... what was happening to him? Was he going through withdrawal symptoms, was he already dependant on whatever had knocked him out? Was he just being offered more drugs to barely cling to a life that was already effectively taken from him? That wasn't a life he wanted to live. But... something about the idea of accepting death was repulsive.

He felt like... he felt like... he needed to do something... a sudden spike of pain burst through his head, causing him to shudder and groan- his back nearly sliding off whatever he was propped against. A pair of hand on his biceps stabilized him into his previous position.

"That settles it. You're going to feed, no excuses. And once you're better, we're going to talk. Just talk, alright?"

"But so help me, Caine, if you turn your head away from me one more time, I will rip off your jaw, break your arms and legs, and pour this down whatever mangled piehole you got left as I watch you do your best impression of a crippled octopus. Understand?"

A cold shiver went down Emerson's spine as he visualised the needlessly complex brutality and realized that although it may take the old bastard awhile to get it done- he was in a position to do so. They were completely alone, in the middle of nowhere, and with his blurry vision he couldn't tell if the old man had a tool box of torture goodies with him.

So this was, essentially, beyond fucked.

He decided he'd rather get addicted than lose his jaw and choke on his own blood, or have his fingernails ripped out one by one until he complied.

Emerson straightened up as much as he could, the fabric of his shirt catching against what sounded like wood as some sharp bits dug into the small of his back. His muscles similarly protested with sharp aches, while his joints experienced piercing pain as though bone fragments were digging into ligaments. But he somehow managed it, releasing a shuddering breath through half-gritted teeth as he powered through it as best he could.

'I'll accept this on my own terms.' Emerson resolutely decided- maybe an opportunity to escape would present itself if he was patient enough. Then he could go to a rehab clinic, support groups, etc. He would find a way out of this.

"Good. Here we go."

Emerson once more felt something smooth and cold push against his mouth, only this time, he carefully parted his dry lips and waited with eyes shut.

'Just get it over-'

A liquid gently flooded over his tongue- partly filling his mouth. The initial surprise immediately vanished as Emerson's mind suddenly went blank- his entire body seizing in place. He swallowed the small mouthful of liquid.

It was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted- the flavor, the intensity, the essence of what it was defied description. But the one thing his subconscious instinctively understood the moment that liquid slid down his parched throat, was that he needed more. So much more. He pushed his mouth harder against the plastic, causing more of that liquid to gush out- some of it messily spilling past his lips and sliding down either side of his mouth to drip onto his lap.

"Easy does it, now." Came the old man's voice, but Emerson didn't hear him, there was only the liquid, there was only the simple movement of it flowing across his tongue, down his throat, pooling in his stomach- a warm radiance gradually spreading through his core.

After the first mouth-full, his mouth and throat were no longer horrifically dry and the numbness and neuropathy in his limbs devolved into a light tingling sensation.

The second mouth-full, and the piercing ache within his muscles and the glass shards stabbing his joints became a dull, muted pulse.

The third mouth-full, and the warm blanket of fatigue and lethargy overwhelming his spirit lifted- a weight he hadn't even noticed lifting off his shoulders as the mental toll of his condition abatted.

The fourth mouth-full, and the pounding headache at his temples turned to a mild throbbing.

The fifth mouth-full, and his sickly pale skin gradually darkened to a healthy hue- hundreds of blackened veins momentarily becoming discernable against his skin before disappearing.

"That does it for now." The old man made to pull away the plastic container when Emerson deeply growled, low in his throat and started drinking even harder. He even quickly reached up with both hands to grab the bag.

"Enough." The old man growled.

The sound elicited something primal within Emerson, and his weakened Beast meekly shrunk away as a true alpha made its presence known- commanding deep respect, and submission.

Emerson's body went into autopilot. He dropped his hands back to his sides and dutifully unlatched his mouth from the plastic bag, inclining his head as though chastised. He didn't even realize he was doing it until it was already over.

'What... was that?' Emerson was horrified. He had no control over himself. He just... he'd just done what felt correct.

"Mm. Good, feeling better right?"

Emerson slowly opened his eyes- blankly staring at the snowy ground between his thighs. He didn't notice the fresh drops of blood staining his ruined clothes. He was still processing the speed of his miraculous recovery, and the fact he listened to his kidnapper without a second thought. What was happening? And why... he slowly clenched his hands into fists. Did he suddenly feel so much better? So... good? This wasn't right- he felt like he was on death's door not even a minute ago. And now?

He deeply inhaled the cool, night air- its soothing cold contrasting nicely with the warmth radiating through his body.

"Now then," Emerson briefly caught a blur of movement directly in front of him. He looked up.

The old man was once more sitting on his own log across the dwindling campfire- a half empty blood bag held in his lap.

"Let's talk."