Everglade Harbour's morgue wasn't a very busy place. In New York, morgue's were overrun with dead people; in the big city people died all the time. In a place like this, with less than half the population... Well it would be an easy job, that was for sure. 

Harold; the old man who ran the morgue, had shown him the ropes that morning and there didn't seem like there was much to do. It was mostly filling out paperwork, give him a ring if a body actually came in and for the rest of the time he was allowed to do as he liked. 

That night, his first at the morgue, it was raining heavily. It was appropriate weather for this kind of job, and he watched the rain patter against the window, rattling the old frames. He clicked the end of his pen, the sound echoing in the empty room. He wasn't expecting any bodies. The night had barely begun, and how many people could die at once in a small town like this? 

So when a car pulled up outside, his heart beat in his throat. It was the unmarked black car of the Body Carriers, as they were called in the town. Before he could pick up his phone to ring Harold, they were bursting through the doors, pushing a body on a metal stretcher. 

"There's a body for you." They muttered, signing the guest book before they left altogether. They didn't much care about the bodies themselves. Their job was over when they delivered them. He would call in a moment; first he should complete his paperwork. 

He took a fresh sheet from the stack in the drawer and, pen clutched between his teeth, he approached the body. Without the sheet covering it he could see that it was a male, so he marked the gender down straight away. The second thing he noticed was that the boy was gorgeous. His hair was blond and shoulder length, a few pale tendrils escaping the ribbon it was tied with. He wore dark clothing; black jeans and a shirt made of tough material that had unfortunately been torn as he'd gone through whatever had happened to cause his death. 

He scrawled down everything he could see; the colour of his hair and the pale grey pallor of his skin, the clothes he wore and the marks left on them, as well as the only injury he could see; three jagged scratches on his face. They ran from his eyebrow to his neck, and were angry and red. So, despite his grey skin, whatever had happened to him happened recently. 

Something about the boy made Chan unsure if calling Harold was the right move. A feeling has settled in the pit of his stomach, clenching tight and not letting go. He shouldn't call, he should do this himself. What was the first step? Cutting off the clothing. 

Grabbing the scissors from the desk, he approached the body again. Well, here goes nothing. 

His heart jumped into his throat once again as he lowered the scissors to the fabric of the shirt. 

Then the body gasped and sat up straight. 

Chan screamed, stumbling backwards into the reception desk. That wasn't supposed to happen. Bodies weren't supposed to move. But here it was, moving. The boy stared at him with large brown eyes, opening his mouth to speak. 

"Help me..."

Chan couldn't stop the whimper that escaped him. "But you... you're dead!" 

The boy rubbed his eyes, movements slow and sluggish, his voice scratchy with disuse. He reminded Chan of somebody waking up after a long coma. The boy shook his head, groaning with the effort of moving his body after being out for so long. "Not...dead. Never...dead."

Chan closed his eyes for a brief moment and sucked in a breath. What the fuck was happening. This boy was supposed to be dead, he had been dead. And now he was here, talking and moving around, as though he'd never been dead at all. And what did he mean, never dead. Had this happened before?

"Who are you?" Once Chan opened his eyes he noticed the boy had stepped off the metal table, wobbling as he took a few steps forward. Chan couldn't help but shrink back as far as he could. Maybe he was dangerous. Maybe the boy was on drugs or something. 

"I don't..." He seemed to pause for a minute, seeming to struggle getting the words out. "I'm Felix..." 

"Okay.." Chan answered suspiciously. "And where did you come from, Felix?" 

"I don't..." It seemed to be his default response. As though he didn't know the word know. As If he couldn't say it. "Please help me.." He murmured. All the while he was stepping closer. Chan had nowhere else to go, he was backed up between a wall and the desk. He just had to hope that the boy wasn't dangerous. That he wouldn't hurt him. 

"Okay, listen, I'm sure there's something we can do. Somebody we can call..."

"No, please..." The boy whined again. 

He took two more steps forward before collapsing in Chan's arms. 

Shit.