Behind iron gates rose the imposing facade of the chocolate factory, coated now in a thick white blanket of snow. Somewhere deep inside, a man slept fitfully in his bed, hidden away in a room armored from the eyes of the world in a stone labyrinth of his making.

He was dreaming of his childhood home again. Or rather, of its absence upon his return from an attempt to run to a dream that had never seemed unattainable until then. He stared at the empty space between houses, shivering in the cold wind of the winter evening and the impending storm. He would spend that night, and many following, on the cold streets. Until the orphanage found him.

Trapped by the dream-recreation of his own memories, Wonka's heart rate spiked as the dream sped forward into one of the most miserable parts of his life.

Running down the halls of the half-completed orphanage annex, scuffed shoes slapping noisily and elbows knocking painfully into the impossibly narrow walls on either side, a cloud of dust following. Footsteps thundering on the steps below, the entire building shaking. He reached his door, this time, throwing it open and stumbling in, hands reaching for the weathered wardrobe next to his bed. He could hear their taunts in the hall now, voices calling for him, "metal head", or the more common "freak" after the head gear had been removed. It was not just the hated contraption, he had quickly learned, but simply him that the others found strange. And so, as he crammed himself into the wardrobe and held the door closed with shaking fingers, he would pay the price for his eccentricity.

Wonka's eyes snapped open, laying still for a moment as his erratic breathing calmed. He rose from the bed, pulling his purple robe from its hook near the door, and exited the room while putting it on over his black silk pajamas.

During his time in the jungle on the homeland of the Oompa Loompas, Wonka observed a black panther, fascinated by the fluid grace and careful power of its movements as it stalked its prey. He learned its habits, and now moved with the same catlike fluidity as he prowled the corridors of his factory. In their own language, the Oompas called him the panther when he was out of earshot. Not in mocking, but in quiet reverence.

In the deathly quiet of nighttime, the woosh signifying the arrival of the glass elevator was thunderous. Wonka stepped inside distractedly, his mind forever worlds away. He went to push the button for the Inventing Room, finger hovering over it as a glint of moonlight reflected on the glass from a faraway window illuminated his pale drawn features.

Wonka knew he could not go on much longer without facing the truth whispered among the Oompa Loompas. He thought again of the grey hair discovered during his semi-annual haircut, a sign of premature aging from the lifestyle he led. Something had to be done before he dropped dead of exhaustion or succumbed to the lonely haunted mania that pushed out against the careful walls of his mind from some deep darkness within.

With the knowledge that sleep would now allude him for quite some time, Wonka would spend the rest of the night in the colorful comfort of the Inventing Room.

In the morning, the world awoke to the news of five mysterious golden tickets that would open the doors to the long-closed factory and the secrets within.