Chapter Two

Rescued

I'm just gonna run right through the rain

I'm just gonna dance right through the pain

I just wanna feel that rhythm feel that drum

Let my heart beat louder

Let my heart speak louder than my head _Louder, Charice

I woke up under starchy white sheets in a room that was entirely white, sterile white, uncomfortable white, but it was better than the stone alleyway. The room smelled of lemons and menthol and under that a richer smell, a smothered smell, coffee? I heard the soft soothing ticking of a clock, and I shifted until I saw it, in the corner of the room, as white as anything else.

The only splash of color is a TV set on a glass nightstand by my bedside, turned off. I hesitantly reach up to turn it on, wondering if it'll give me any clues as to where I am, if I find a news channel it'll at least tell me the date. I glance up at the clock once again 6:42 PM, how long have I been out?

I flip through the channels, heading for the lower numbers, brief snatches of audio disorients my sleep-muddled brain.

I love…

It's been a long day…

Crack the egg…

Finally I find the channel and scan the screen for the date, August 16th. Alright, time for some math, I left on the 14th, which means of course that I've been out for TWO DAYS?

I cover my eyes with my hands; my head is reeling for an entirely different reason now. I wobble half-hazardly to my feet, using my hands for support, and stagger to the door, flinging it open with more force than I intend to.

The hallway is far brighter than the room I had been in. Mauve walls and rosy carpets, lavishly decorated with crystal trinkets and seashells, Mesmerized, I stroke the outside of a cream colored conch, it's smooth and cool to the touch.

"Ah, you're awake," the voice makes me jump and I spin quickly, facing a tall man with violet eyes behind half moon glasses, and a cleanly parted head of black hair. He looks like a doctor, but he's wearing a pinstriped suit instead of a lab coat. He's balancing a tray on his arm, bearing tea pots, cups, saucers, and what looks to be a pitcher of cream.

"A-Are you a butler?" the words are out of my mouth before I can really think them through, I bite my lip, wondering if I offended him, he doesn't smile, but his eyes glitter with amusement.

"No, I'm not a butler," his voice is all business, clipped and cold, but I have a feeling he can't help it. He steps smoothly past me and into the white room ushering me in after him with his free arm. I follow obediently, ducking my head in silent apology.

He sits the tea tray on a dresser and pulls out a chair, sitting down and crossing his legs. Long legs, I notice, elegant; just like everything else in this place.

"Hotaru should be here soon," he says, somewhat absently, pouring hot water into an exquisite porcelain teacup with a violet painted on the side.

"How do you take your tea?" he asks. I'm so confused; I can imagine my eyes darting around like pinballs. I shake my head, trying to gather a bit of clarity.

"Um, weak and…sweet," he nods, and picks up a packet with long, elegant fingers, piano playing fingers.

"Who is Hotaru?" I ask, who are you for that matter? I add silently, clasping my hands together and holding them in my lap.

"My younger sister, Imai Hotaru, is Oolong alright?" he asks, he's entirely absorbed in the tea tray; I nod, totally in over my head. The name Imai sounds familiar somehow, suddenly it clicks.

"Imai? As is International Inventions: Imai?" he pauses to appraise me, a slim eyebrow raised.

"Yes, the very one," I suck in a deep breath, no freakin' way! What is he doing here? What am I doing here?

"M-My dad used to work for you, for your company," smooth Mikan, way smooth, you don't sound like an idiot at all.

"And who was your father?" he asked, pouring a healthy dose of cream into my cup.

"Yukihira Izumi," I say, my eyes fixed on his quick, graceful fingers as he picks up a spoon and scoops up a sugar cube, dropping it into the tea

"Yukihira, yes, he was a good man," he drops another cube into my cup, maintaining eye contact, even though I'm struggling; the man is so intense.

"I am very sorry for your loss," he says, he passes me the cup, resting carefully on a matching saucer; I have never drunk anything so beautiful.

The door opened with a creak, and in stepped a girl; more specifically the girl who rescued me.