My Taboo Harem!-Chapter 320: The Music Box’s Dark Notes

Rain poured through the widening hole in the roof—normal, relentless silver sheets—but the moment each drop crossed the portal’s edge it froze into black-glass needles that spun lazily in orbit around Phei before spiraling inward and disappearing forever.

The windshield folded like paper origami made of light—then collapsed into a single point of black nothing.

The steering wheel twisted in on itself—still turning uselessly in empty air—until it too folded inward and was gone.

Melissa’s scream died in her throat—choked off by awe and terror. The car did not slow down for once... it went faster and faster while all this was happening!

She stared—wide-eyed, frozen—hands still cradling Phei’s head as the seat beneath them began to unravel.

The leather beneath her thighs thinned, frayed, folded into nothing. The door beside her warped—metal bending at angles that hurt to look at—then collapsed inward like a crushed soda can made of impossible origami introducing her open to the rush of impossible wind her hair whipping, her eyes hurt yet she refused to close them to look off Phie.

The entire chassis groaned—a dying animal sound—then silenced as it folded in on itself in perfect symmetry: roof to floor, front to back, left to right—until what remained was a perfect sphere of black ice no larger than a basketball, hovering above the highway.

Rain hammered down on empty asphalt where the SUV had been speeding off to.

No wreckage. No debris. No skid marks.

Just a perfect circle of dry road—rain refusing to touch it—surrounded by normal, sheeting downpour.

The metal ball hit the road and continued off.

Inside the sphere—inside the nothingness—Phei floated.

Curled fetal. Blood frozen in perfect orbiting droplets—crimson-black pearls caught in zero gravity. Veins glowing with black-starlight that pulsed slow and deep. Eyes still void, still burning—glacial slits drinking every stray photon.

Melissa floated beside him—untouched.

Her hair drifted in slow motion—long dark strands suspended as though underwater in vacuum. Her tears hung suspended—black pearls frozen mid-fall, glittering with refracted void-light. Her hands still cradled his face—fingers trembling, but safe. The Void-Ice wrapped around her like a cocoon—gentle, protective, absolute.

It did not devour her. It carried her.

Tendrils of black frost brushed her skin—not cutting, not burning—only kissing cold before retreating, leaving behind delicate patterns of frost that melted instantly into warm skin again. The folding space bent around her—shielding her pocket of reality even as the rest of the car was unmade.

The orbiting blood droplets drifted closer to her hands—slow, reverent—as though offering themselves like dark jewels to the only thing Phei still recognized as home.

The sphere pulsed once—slow, deep, like a heartbeat from the center of nothing.

Then it collapsed.

Not exploded.

Collapsed.

Swallowed itself whole—black ice folding inward, smaller, smaller, smaller—until it was a single point of absolute darkness hanging above the rain-slick highway.

Then—

nothing.

****

In the absolute dark there was only the music box.

A small, porcelain thing—pink and gold, chipped at the edges like something once cherished and then deliberately broken—floating weightless in the dark room. Its tinny, delicate notes drifted out one by one like dying fireflies: slow, fragile, heartbreakingly sad.

The melody looped—never quite finishing, never quite beginning again—just hanging there, lonely, abandoned, the sound of something very small trying to remember being loved. Each note trembled, fragile as a child’s heartbeat slowing in a cold room.

Then the tempo quickened.

Just a little.

Then faster.

The notes began to trip over each other—clumsy at first, then frantic, manic, giggling in high metallic panic.

The music box spun faster in place—twisting, jerking—as though invisible hands were turning the key beyond its limit, springs screaming inside porcelain ribs.

The melody fractured into something unhinged—joyful shrieks of sound that made the darkness feel like it was laughing too, sharp and breathless, the laughter of someone who finds terror delicious.

Then—mocking.

The notes slowed again. Became cruel. Each pluck of the tiny comb now deliberate, taunting, the way a finger might tap-tap-tap on a child’s skull to remind them they’re still here.

The music box drifted lower—almost close enough to touch—playing the same four notes over and over—mocking, patient, certain that the listener would eventually break. The porcelain face painted on its lid seemed to smile wider with every repetition, cracked cheeks stretching in silent glee.

A single shaft of light stabbed down from nowhere.

Not warm or kind.

Cold white, surgical, like moonlight filtered through surgical steel—harsh enough to burn retinas, sharp enough to cut shadows into bleeding edges.

It struck the floor in a perfect circle no larger than a dinner plate.

Dust motes danced in the beam—slow, hypnotized—revealing three small, bare footprints pressed into the room’s dust. Tiny toes. A child’s feet. The prints were fresh, edges still crisp, the faint warmth of skin still lingering in the dust before the cold devoured it.

The feet themselves were already gone—swallowed back into darkness the moment they left the light.

Only the prints remained, evidence of something that had been here and fled.

The spotlight moved.

Not smoothly. Not kindly.

It jerked forward—following the once invisible trail—illuminating one print, then another, then another. Each time it advanced, the darkness rushed in behind it like black water closing over a wound. The prints glowed briefly in the cold light—perfect little crescents of sole and toe—then vanished as the beam slid onward, hungry, relentless.

Five seconds of stillness.

The music box paused mid-note—hanging on a single, trembling tone that refused to die.

Then the light lunged.

It erupted forward—blinding, merciless—flooding the far corner of the room in stark white.

A sharp, young gasp cut the silence.

Curled tight in the corner sat a child.

Four years old.

Dressed in a miniature expensive black suit—jacket too big, sleeves rolled clumsily, tie crooked and askew—like someone had tried to make him look like a little man and failed miserably. His knees were pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them in a desperate ball, small body rocking in tiny, helpless shivers.

Brown eyes—huge, glassy, rimmed with an unnatural amethyst purple shimmer that flickered like dying embers—stared straight into the light like a deer caught in headlights.

The sudden exposure tore a wail from him—wild, animal, heartbroken.

The music box answered.

Its melody shifted.

No longer tinny. No longer mechanical.

But a lone piano note— it struck so pure they felt like knives sliding between ribs. Each chord was a masterwork—aching, devastating, the kind of music humans are not supposed to achieve without selling something irreplaceable.

The melody didn’t play; it bled. Slow, deliberate arpeggios cascaded downward like tears frozen mid-fall, then snapped upward in sharp, stabbing octaves that made the air itself flinch—every note lingered, overlapping, layering grief upon grief until the sound became a physical weight pressing down on the chest, squeezing lungs, cracking ribs that weren’t there to break.

It wrapped the room like velvet soaked in grief—soft, suffocating, intimate.

Every note carved a fresh wound with surgical tenderness: the low C that rumbled like a mother’s last heartbeat fading into silence; the high F-sharp that sliced like a child’s scream cut short; the tritone that hung unresolved, dangling over the void like a promise of pain that would never resolve.

The child screamed.

Not in wonder.

In terror.

He clapped small hands over his ears—fingers trembling, nails digging bloody crescents into his own scalp—but the music poured straight through skin and bone. It hammered into him—beautiful and merciless—each perfect chord a fresh wound.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, freezing halfway into tiny violet-black diamonds that clattered to the floor like broken glass.

But the music poured straight through skin and bone, through the fragile shield of his palms, hammering into him—beautiful and merciless—each perfect chord a fresh wound. Tears streamed down his cheeks, freezing halfway into tiny violet-black diamonds that clattered to the floor like broken glass.

"Mommy!" he wailed, voice cracking into high, shattering pitches. "Daddy—please—help me—HELP ME—!"

The darkness answered.

A voice—low, amused, intimate—slithered through the strings like silk over a blade.

"Sorry, little prodigy... Mommy’s not—"

It cut off.

Abruptly.

Replaced by something softer. Sweeter. Devastatingly gentle.

"Phei, my child..."

The boy’s sobs choked off.

His head jerked up.

Brown-violet eyes—wide, wet, desperate—searched the darkness.

And the room changed.

The concept of "dark room" dissolved.

Stone walls rippled and stretched—becoming towering battlements of black obsidian veined with violet ice that pulsed like living arteries.

The floor fell away into roiling mist so thick it looked like breathing. The ceiling soared into vaulted gothic arches that disappeared into storm clouds pregnant with violet lightning. In the distance—impossibly far yet somehow close enough to feel the cold radiating from it—stood a castle.

Ancient. Frozen. Beautiful in the way graves are beautiful—silent, eternal, waiting.

At its heart—visible as though distance meant nothing—lay an ice bed.

A coffin of translucent black ice so cold it birthed its own mist—thick, roiling, curling around the structure like living breath. Inside—suspended, preserved, radiant—lay a woman or more princely... floated in a sleeping posture.

Long dark hair frozen in mid-float. Pale skin glowing faintly violet. Lips curved in the faintest, saddest smile.