Diabolik Lovers: Recovery

Chapter 1: Implantation

With hesitant fingers, I trace the scar that spans down the front of my chest to where it disappears beneath my shirt. It's been a long while since I received it, but the pain has returned. Each thump of the heart inside my chest is a rebellion against the girl who is not its true owner.

"We are close," my driver says with a backward glance at me in the rearview mirror.

I nod my acknowledgement and stare out the window at the overcast sky. The storm seemed to grow thicker and thicker above us like a hungry mold, then again, the sun had been close to setting when I had last seen it. Perhaps the darkness meant it had finally dipped below the horizon.

"Here."

I promptly exit the vehicle with my luggage; the driver doesn't spare me a second glance as he putters away down the long driveway.

Beautiful house, I think and paste a smile upon my lips. Anything to keep my mind from dwelling on the fact that my father was overseas for work. He would be for the next year at the very least.

A roll of thunder cracks overhead and I jump into action, dragging my suitcase under the eave of the door. The knocker is cold like ice, but it makes a solid bong upon the door. For a few moments, I stand waiting. It sounds as if dust bunnies were the only creatures living beyond the door; I couldn't hear a single living thing.

Maybe they weren't told of my arrival.

I put my hand to the door once more, but it swings in with barely a whisper of a creak.

"Hello?" I call in and frown. "My name is Miyako Komori; is anyone home?"

When there is no response but for the angry growl of thunder outside, I pull my baggage inside and neatly pile it beside the door. I sluff off my raincoat and shoes as well and pile them neatly nearby. With my cell clutched in my hand, I step into the foyer a bit more in search of life. Half of me already desired to call my father, but I didn't wish to bother him with my homesickness. 

He'd probably just tell me to be on guard anyway; to remember what he'd taught me. I didn't need a reminder. My feet were already braced in a fighting stance just in case. Something told me that danger lurked here, but I couldn't place my finger on it. 

As I gaze around the foyer I see a figure resting upon a crimson sofa. His rust-red hair is mussed with seemingly frosted tips. His eyes are closed, restful, as if in sleep.

"Excuse me," I say in a calm voice. He doesn't move as I approach so I lay a hand on his shoulder and shake lightly. "I'm sorry to disturb your sleep, but I need some help."

The shirt he is wearing is frigidly cold so I move my hand to his wrist.

"Oh no," I murmur and reach for his neck to feel for a pulse.

He can't be dead! This is not happening! Please don't be dead.

"No pulse," I breathe then snatch up my phone and begin dialing. Not a second later, the cell is whisked from my hands. "Wha-?"

"You make such a racket," the man says, narrowing his eyes at me as he holds my phone aloft. "That's very disrespectful as this is not your home."

"You didn't have a pulse," I protest, leaping to my feet and regaining the fighting stance.

"How daft are you?"

I scowl at him and reach for my phone, "I made a mistake, I apologize-"

Before I could see him move, my wrist is cuffed by his hand and I'm yanked down onto the couch. My back presses deeply into the cushions as he hovers over me. His hands are braced on either side of my head as he bends forward toward my face.