London, 1888. Mr. Pendleton placed a steaming teacup on the table. The dim glow of the oil lamp cast dancing shadows from the complex machinery that filled his workshop.
Peering over his spectacles, he watched Y/N, the only source of warmth besides the fireplace, reading a book.A gentle smile rested on Y/N's face. They were the single perfect order, the only point of serenity in the chaos of Pendleton's world. His drive for invention and constant innovation had isolated him from society, but Y/N had accepted his complicated mind exactly as it was. Next to them, even his infamous "social ineptitude" seemed to melt into a sweet eccentricity."darling." Pendleton said, his voice momentarily smooth.
"The air is cold and the fog is thick. I would much prefer it if you did not venture out today."Y/N lifted their head from the book, their eyes shining with affection. "But Pendleton, I must have a breath of fresh air. Besides, I promised Mrs. Davies I would fetch that special fabric for your new device. And I shall return with your favourite apple tart."Pendleton wrapped his arms around Y/N's shoulders,pulling them close for a soft kiss on the neck.
"Very well. But return before the shadows lengthen. This city... it offers little trust these days."
The whispers of Jack, the bold headlines in the papers, disturbed even Pendleton's peace."I promise, my dear inventor. I shall be back no later than teatime, and certainly before the fear sets in
This was the last promise Y/N would ever keep
Teatime came and went. Pendleton checked his pocket watch, waiting for the apple tart.
With every minute that passed, a cold, unreasonable anxiety grew in his stomach, shoving aside all thoughts of his inventions.An hour later, he shot up with a chilling premonition. He grabbed his coat and fled the workshop, slamming the door behind him and plunging into the misty, damp streets of London.
Mrs. Davies's tailor shop... Pendleton's breath caught in his throat. He ran—a speed he'd forgotten he possessed. His heart beat like a frantic, caged bird against his ribs.He rounded the corner.
Under the flickering light of the streetlamp, right on the pavement outside the tailor shop...Pendleton's world turned crimson.
Y/N was lying there. Bright red blood had spread mercilessly across the grey cobblestones, forming a dark, wet stain.No one was around, only the indifferent hum of London and the cold smell of the wet pavement.That famous, beautiful face... it was utterly pale.Pendleton's throat tightened. At first, he thought it was a trick of the mind. It couldn't be. They were just fetching fabric.He dropped to his knees. His hand trembled as he reached for Y/N’s rapidly cooling one. The instant his skin touched theirs, all his denial shattered.
His voice was a harsh whisper. No answer. Those beautiful eyes, which should still have held the light of life, were now glazed and vacant.
The first tear slid down Pendleton's cheek and landed on Y/N's face. Then another, and another... The tears fell onto the blood-soaked jacket, making the red deepen.Pendleton screamed. He let out a primal, animalistic shriek that tore from his throat—a sound no one heard, no one cared about. His hands clenched. He was trembling.How? Why?All his inventions, all his complex mechanisms and formulas... None of it could reverse this simple, savage reality. Mr. Pendleton could invent no machine that could turn back time.He collapsed onto the ground, embracing Y/N's lifeless body. He wept. He wept until his eyes were dry, until his lungs burned with the sheer agony. When the tears were gone, only those deep, hollow, mournful sounds remained.
Pendleton rose slowly. There was no more denial or shock in his eyes. Only a profound, terrifying resolution.He didn't want anyone. No police, no neighbours. This moment belonged only to them.Struggling to stand, he lifted Y/N’s body into his arms. They weighed next to nothing, always light in his embrace. But now, that very weightlessness felt like the burden of the entire world on Pendleton’s shoulders.
"I will not leave you alone for a single moment," he whispered, his voice rough and broken. "I will give you a worthy end. By my own hands."Carrying Y/N, he walked to the back garden of the workshop. There, beneath the apple tree where they used to share tea and discuss his latest creations, Pendleton took up the spade.The earth was cold, hard.Pendleton dug. Every strike of the spade was a sob. The sound of digging was the sound of his soul fragmenting. As dawn approached, his hands were blistered, his back ached, but he did not stop. This was his final duty.He dug a grave deep enough.Then, gently, with incredible meticulousness, he lowered Y/N’s body into the earth. He had wrapped them in a blanket. You won't be cold. I promise.He covered the soil with his own hands. Slowly, as if afraid to disturb a sleeping lover.When it was done, Pendleton collapsed.
Lying on the newly turned earth beneath the apple tree, Mr. Pendleton was nothing more than a shadow consumed by grief.His eyes burned, but no more tears came. He had none left. The loss of Y/N had drained him of all remaining moisture.On that day in 1888, Mr. Pendleton did not die as an inventor, but as a lover. And all that remained was a cold, cruel ambition fuelled by revenge. The sweet man was gone. All that was left was a restless ghost, his pain hardened into a shell of obsessive insecurity and terrible resolve.
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