Carlson stepped fully into the room, the door closing softly behind him. His expression didn't change—still that quiet, almost-smile that made Eline's stomach tighten.
Eline didn't smile back. His body was still stiff, his mind slower than usual, like everything inside him was lagging half a second behind reality.
Carlson spoke first.
"Did you rest well?"
The question landed lightly, too lightly, like it didn't belong to the situation at all.
Eline's mouth opened, then closed again. No sound came out. His throat felt dry, sealed shut. The silence stretched—one second, two—long enough to feel humiliating.
"Yes," he finally said. "I did."
Carlson nodded, as if he'd expected that answer.
"well i've got to know one interesting fact about you ," he said calmly. "Quite a capability you were born with… a quiet ability."
Eline frowned. His pulse thudded in his ears.
"There's no ability in being the way I am. It's just… the way I was born."
"No," Carlson said, stepping closer. "You are quite capable of something that nobody else in the world is."
Eline shook his head slightly, more out of refusal than confusion. " He stopped himself, swallowed. "Just because my body is… different doesn't mean anything. "
For the first time, Carlson's smile sharpened—just a fraction.
he said. "That's very human of you."
Eline looked away.
"I don't understand what are you talking about. ," he muttered. "And I don't want to."
Carlson studied him for a moment, then asked quietly, "Do you know who we are?"
"Yes," Eline replied stiffly. "Powerful people. Billionaires. Influential."
Carlson let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh. "If only it were that simple."
He took a step closer. "You need to come with me."
Eline tensed. "Where?"
"You'll see." Then, almost as an afterthought: "Can you walk?"
Eline nodded, though the movement was hesitant. "Yeah. I can."
He swung his legs off the bed—and immediately felt it. The ache, the weakness, the delayed protest of his body. His knees buckled before he could stop it, and he dropped back onto the mattress with a sharp inhale.
Carlson didn't react with surprise.
"It's not a failure to accept help," he said evenly. "Especially when your body hasn't caught up with your will."
Before Eline could protest, Carlson bent down and lifted him with ease—steady, controlled, as if he'd done this many times before. Eline stiffened but didn't resist. He didn't trust his voice enough to argue.
Carlson carried him out of the room, down the quiet corridors, until they reached a door Eline recognized without being told.
The room with the black diamond.
And somehow, deep in his chest, Eline knew—whatever was about to happen next had already been decided long before he woke up this morning.
They reached the room on the third floor, the second one—the room where the black diamond rested. The door looked ordinary at first glance: dark wood, a faint silver inlay that caught the light like veins in marble, and a single lock that glimmered cold and unyielding.
Eline tried to imagine how he could ever get it open. He wasn't even standing—Carlson held him in his arms—but still, his brain was working overtime.
Carlson's hand brushed the lock. At first, nothing happened. Eline tensed. Then, with the tiniest flick of his fingers, the lock shimmered like liquid silver, twisted in midair for a heartbeat, and disappeared. Just… gone. Like it had never been there. Dust motes floated in the sunlight streaming through a nearby window, glinting over the doorway as if applauding the trick.
Eline's jaw dropped. His eyes went wide, lips parted. He squirmed in Carlson's arms, though not enough to escape. "W-What… what was that?" he whispered, voice trembling, half in awe, half in panic.
Carlson looked down at him, expression calm, almost bemused. "Surprised?" he asked lightly, though his gaze held that weight, the one that made Eline feel like a mouse under a cat's scrutiny.
Eline swallowed, trying to gather his wits. "Are you… a witch? (what do you even—Are you going to… eat me? Turn me into something else? Sell me to some… devil?" )His thoughts ran in chaotic spirals, words sticking in his throat.
Carlson didn't answer, just tightened his hold slightly, letting the boy stew in his own panicked imagination. For a moment, Eline had to admit—half unwillingly—that the thrill of watching this calm, impossible man do something so utterly unreal was… intoxicating.
The lock was gone. The door, untouched by force, stood open. Carlson held him in front of it, his posture perfect, controlled, a silent reminder that resistance was… pointless. Eline's body ached all over, sore and heavy from last night, but his mind buzzed with a mix of terror, awe, and—he'd hate to admit it—a little shivery excitement.
The first thing Eline thought was absurd.
(What was that man thinking to send me here ?)
The idea struck him so suddenly he almost laughed—if he wasn't already halfway to a breakdown. The black diamond. Of course. That has to be it. He glanced at the doorway behind them, then at Carlson's unbothered back.
As if I could even touch that thing, he thought bitterly. I couldn't open that lock if you gave me a lifetime. The memory of the silver lock dissolving under Carlson's fingers replayed in his mind. Witchcrafted. That was the only word that made sense.
(Do I look like a witch to him?
Do I look like someone who bargains with cursed doors and ancient artifacts?)
His thoughts spiraled faster the deeper they went inside.
Maybe this is it, another voice whispered. Maybe he's going to give my soul to something. A devil. A god. Whatever rich, powerful people deal with when money isn't enough anymore.
His chest tightened.
(No. No, I'll just… stand here. I'll leave the same way I came. I won't touch anything. I won't look at anything. I'll survive this.
Then they entered the room.)
It was vast—far larger than the rest of the house suggested. The air felt different here, heavier, like it had weight. Not oppressive exactly, but aware. As if the room itself was watching.
Against one corner stood a small ritual symbols etched into the floor so faint they looked like scars rather than carvings. A single plant grew beside them—not placed, but rooted, as if it had claimed the space on its own.
Eline's breath caught.
The plant was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Its roots cracked straight through the concrete floor, thick and dark, pulsing faintly as they disappeared into the depths below. From them rose thin, twisting stems, and at the center—cradled unnaturally, almost reverently—hung a fruit.
It was faceted. Uneven. Shaped wrong.
It shimmered with an upstream hue, colors flowing against themselves, light bending instead of reflecting. Not black, not quite—deeper than black.
He knew without being told.
The black diamond.
What froze him wasn't the fruit itself—but the roots.
They were drinking something.
A dark, smoky energy seeped upward from beneath the floor, curling like mist around the roots before being absorbed. It looked alive. Hungry. Wrong.
Eline stared, stunned, heart pounding so loudly he was sure Carlson could hear it.
This is a Harry Potter nightmare, his mind supplied weakly. This is the scene where the normal person realizes they were never supposed to be here.
Slowly, fear crept back in—sharper now, more real.
He turned his head toward Carlson, eyes wide, lips parted, trembling just enough that he couldn't hide it. Horror, awe, disbelief—all tangled together.
Am I already dead?
Is this what dying feels like? Watching something you'll never understand?
His thoughts spiraled again.
This can't be it. This can't be how it ends.
He can't slaughter me for this. I didn't do anything. I didn't even touch it.
He said nothing. Not a word.
But every part of him screamed the same silent question as he stood there, staring at the impossible:
What did you bring me here for?