Y/n had been looking for Pugsley and Eugene for the better part of an hour. They'd been weird all week—whispering, glancing over shoulders, and going pale whenever anyone mentioned the old greenhouse or the abandoned shed behind the apiary.

The bee shack was a small, crooked structure at the edge of the estate, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow. The wooden door was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible within.

As Y/n approached, a sound stopped them cold.

The door creaked as Y/n pushed it open. The smell hit first—a thick, cloying sweetness mixed with something rotten, like old meat left out in the heat. It clung to the back of the throat.

And then they saw it.

A figure. Chained to the far wall by rusted iron shackles, slumped forward with its head hanging low. It wore tattered clothes, and its skin—what was visible of it—was a greenish-gray, mottled and peeling. Its chest rose and fell with that same wet, labored breath.