The city was dim under the late afternoon sky, the kind of light that doesn't promise safety but only hides shadows. I walked the streets with my bag slung lazily over one shoulder, thinking about the man's words from two days ago. You are the only one who can touch it. At the time, I had laughed. I thought he was a madman, a con artist preying on desperation. But my laughter had been hollow even then, a mask for the gnawing curiosity I couldn't quite suppress.
The alley leading to the building he had named "the house" smelled faintly of damp stone and aged metal. My hands tightened around the straps of my bag. I wasn't a thief. I had survived on smaller hustles before, true—but this wasn't about skill. This wasn't about being clever. It was about survival, and suddenly I wasn't sure I wanted to survive at all.
The door loomed taller than I expected, made of dark wood streaked with iron that glinted in the fading light. A hush of wind brushed against my ears as if warning me to turn back. I didn't. I never did. Not when someone had promised me wealth, not when I had no one to trust, no home to return to, no family who cared whether I woke or not.
Inside, the house smelled of polished wood and candle smoke, a faint sweetness that made my stomach twist. The man who had called me here was waiting, sitting at a desk that seemed too large for him, too formal, and yet he carried it as though it belonged. He looked at me with the calm precision of a predator studying prey, and for the first time, I felt the truth of his words creep into my chest.
"You know why you're here," he said. His voice was even, almost bored, yet something in the tilt of his head suggested amusement. "The Black Diamond. You touch it, you survive. Anyone else touches it, and they… don't."
I clenched my fists. "And you expect me to steal it? For you? For what? Money? Fame? You're insane."
He smiled faintly. Not a cruel smile. Just… certain. Unshakably certain. "Not for me. For yourself."
I froze. His words were almost absurdly calm, but they carried weight. I had no idea what he meant.
"You are the only one who can touch it. Your blood… your body… it is built differently. Weak. Fragile. And yet, in some ways, perfect. If you try to leave this task to another, you'll die. That's not a threat—it's a fact."
I laughed, but it was hollow, shaky.
"You're saying I'm special? That I'm… disposable if someone else tries?" My voice rose, anger and fear wrestling. "I don't even know who you are! I don't owe you anything!"
"You owe yourself," he said quietly.
"Because your heart won't last. Not for a year, maybe not for six months. And the task… the Diamond… it's the only way."
I stumbled back instinctively, the world tilting for a moment. Six months? My chest ached—not from his words, but from the cold certainty in them. I had always been careful with my body, my life. I had survived on the streets and in small, unnoticed corners of the city. I was invisible. Untouchable. Until now.
He didn't push me. He simply waited, letting the silence stretch so long that I could hear my own heartbeat thudding in my ears. Then he added, almost as an afterthought:
"You can refuse, of course. But time is not on your side."
I left that day, the evening swallowing me whole, my bag heavier than ever—not from its contents, but from the weight of the thought that had taken root in my chest. Your heart won't last
_
The first month passed in a blur. At first, I told myself it was nerves, maybe some stress from too little sleep and too many errands. But the heaviness in my chest didn't ease. My pulse would spike without warning, sharp pains like someone punching me from the inside. It started small, almost ignorable. A flutter here, a twinge there. But by the of this month, even walking up a single flight of stairs made my lungs ache.
I had always been careful with my body, a kind of self-preservation drilled into me after years of being overlooked, ignored. I thought I knew its limits. I thought I could endure anything. But this… this was different.
Finally, I went to a doctor. The sterile smell of the clinic, the humming of fluorescent lights, the soft rustle of nurses moving about—it all felt surreal, as though the world had shifted slightly, as if I had stepped into a dream I didn't want to be awake for.
"Your heart… it's unusual," the doctor said, frowning as he examined my charts. "The readings aren't consistent with any condition we've documented. It's… irregular. Very, very irregular."
"Irregular?" I echoed, my voice small. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know," he admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose. "There's nothing in medical literature that matches your symptoms precisely. It's like… something entirely new."
I left the clinic feeling hollow. My chest ached with both pain and a creeping fear I couldn't shake. My life had been ordinary, unremarkable. I had never expected anything more than survival, maybe a small comfort. And now, suddenly, it felt like a countdown had started, and I was running out of time.
I remembered the man's words.
"Your heart won't last. Not for a year, maybe not for six months. And the task… the Diamond… it's the only way."
At first, I had refused. I told myself he was lying. No one could predict such things. No one could know me that intimately. And yet… the proof was inside me, burning every day, a quiet, steady warning. My hands shook as I clutched my bag on the subway ride home. My stomach churned. Every beat of my heart sounded like a countdown.
The second week, the pain worsened. At night, I woke in sweat, gripping my chest as if I could squeeze my heart back into place. My pulse would hammer so violently I thought it might burst through my ribs. The world became a blur of lights, of strange dizziness that made me stumble down streets I knew by heart.
I knew, finally, that I couldn't ignore the man's deal. I couldn't walk away—not if I wanted to survive.
Back in that same dimly lit alley, I hesitated. I could see the building looming in the distance, almost taunting me. My body wanted to flee. My mind screamed at me to refuse again. But my chest constricted painfully. I had no choice.
"I… I'll do it," I said aloud, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I'll… take the task. But don't think this means I trust you."
"Trust isn't required," he replied smoothly, his eyes glinting faintly in the dark. "You need to survive. That is enough.give me the diamond and i will give you the heart you need to live "
I swallowed hard. Every instinct in me screamed to run, to escape, to pretend I had never heard of the Black Diamond, the wealth, the danger. But this was different. My own body had betrayed me. My blood, my heart, my life—it demanded I act.
For two days, I didn't sleep. I walked through the city at night, my mind racing, imagining the Diamond behind thick glass, guarded by traps, by men I couldn't hope to defeat. I tried to reason, to find some loophole, some other way to earn the money I needed. But nothing made sense. Every path led me back to the same dark conclusion: if I didn't accept, I would die.
And then, finally, I made the decision.
"Fine," I said to no one in particular, as I stood before the door of the house again. "I'll do it. For me. For my life."
My hands were clammy. My heart thudded painfully. Every instinct I had screamed at me, but I had learned by now that survival often demanded ignoring instinct. I pushed open the heavy door, the smell of polished wood and candle smoke curling into my nostrils like a warning.
Inside, the man was waiting, as if he had never doubted I would come. His calmness infuriated me, made my nerves hum with tension.
"Welcome back," he said, tilting his head. "You've made the right choice. The Diamond… and your life… both are in your hands now."
I swallowed, my mouth dry. I nodded, though I didn't feel relief. Only a deep, creeping dread that my life had already changed—forever.
My voice broke before I could stop it.
"My heart is already weak," I said, pressing my palm flat against my chest. "You want me to sneak, climb, run… What if I collapse in the middle of it? What if I die before I even touch the Diamond?"
For the first time, his smile faded—not into concern, but into calculation.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small vial. The glass was dark, almost black, the liquid inside moving slowly, as if it were alive.
"This will keep you alive," he said. "For a while."
I stared at it, dread crawling up my spine.
"A while…?"
"A temporary solution," he continued calmly. "Your heart will stabilize. You'll have strength. Speed. Enough to steal the Diamond and escape."
"And after that?"
He met my eyes, unblinking.
"After that, it will wear off."
"So if I don't make it back in time—"
"Your heart will fail," he finished for me. "Which is why you must not waste a second."
My fingers trembled as I took the vial.
"This isn't permanent," he added, his voice low. "It's borrowed time. Within that time limit, you steal the Diamond, return to me, and I arrange your heart replacement."
He leaned closer.
"Miss the window, and the potion won't save you."
I swallowed hard, the weight of the glass burning against my skin. It wasn't medicine. It wasn't mercy. It was a leash made of time.
And I was already wearing it.