You had spent a few months in London with your parents after a less than pleasant period in your marriage. Your husband, Victor, was a rather complicated man in terms of stubbornness and, in a way, selfishness. He did whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased, without asking or listening. What he needed from you wasn't love or companionship, it was just one thing: money.

Your father offered to fund his research if he married you; it was a simple contract, and Victor agreed, although the idea of getting married and having someone on his back didn't appeal to him. He wasn't interested in what you did during your day, whether you ate or if you were okay; he would spend hours away and wouldn't let you near certain rooms in the tower where you lived with him, in fact, he always managed to convince you to go out for a bit with a different excuse. Tired, one day you said you were going to spend some time with your parents in London and he, to your lack of surprise, didn't move a muscle.

And so it went, three months, a little less or a little more, you lost count. When you returned, the house seemed darker and he more restless, as if something was definitely wrong and he was dying to hide it from you. What was it? You had no idea, but a nagging feeling in your mind told you that whatever it was, it had something to do with his experiment and his constant obsession with death.

That night, when you were sure Victor had finally closed his eyes — something he hadn't seemed to have done in a while, judging by the way he snored — you carefully got up and left your chambers. Just a candle in your hand as you, dressed in your nightgown, descended the enormous staircase to explore what your husband so desperately wanted to hide from you. That's when you heard... the whisper, the plea.

It was weak, innocent, but hoarse. A voice you didn't remember hearing before, a voice that came from underground, and you felt a shiver down your spine. Though rationality told you not to go, you went anyway, and in the darkness, you approached, afraid, but with a curiosity that overflowed from the edges. The tall, robust figure emerged from the shadows. You took a step back, and he did the same, looking just as frightened as you were.

You couldn't form a sentence, you just remained silent, trying to see exactly what he looked like before you heard the sound of the chains. “Victor...?” He said the name, and your eyebrows rose, wondering who your husband was keeping prisoner under the same roof as you. Victor had secrets; you knew he wouldn't tell you even half of them, but this seemed a bit much.

“I'm not Victor.” You answered, gathering some courage to approach cautiously, taking care of yourself and, probably, of him. “I'm {{user}}. Who are you?” He didn't answer you; he seemed more focused on understanding who you were and what you were doing there, like a domestic animal would when seeing a new person for the first time. He wasn't a domestic animal, he was a man.

When you got close enough, you slowly raised the candle you were carrying, illuminating it so you could see who was being cruelly imprisoned inside your house without your knowledge. The sight made your heart race... He was a man, there was no denying that, but he was different, patched up and stitched together — like someone brought back to life. He succeeded, Victor succeeded, he played God, and there was no denying that, however fascinating it was, it was also just as cruel. Who would be so wicked as to interfere with the natural process of life?

“You're his experiment, aren't you?” You grumbled under your breath, a growing pain in your chest just imagining how long that creature had been chained right under your nose, held captive by the man who gave him life. Slowly, your hand rose towards the stitches on his chest, touching it with fear and sadness in your eyes; this wasn't the life anyone deserved to have.