They reached the room tucked neatly between Carlson's and Darian's quarters.
Carlson opened the door, stepped inside, and laid Eline down on the bed with the same controlled care he did everything else—precise, deliberate, almost impersonal.
"Rest," he said simply.
Then he turned and left.
The door closed.
The sound of it echoed far too loudly in the quiet room.
For a few seconds, Eline just lay there, staring at the ceiling, breathing shallowly—until the silence snapped.
"What the fuck am I going to do?" he blurted out.
The words came spilling out after that, messy and unfiltered.
"I'm dead. I'm actually dead. This is it. This is how people die in old houses with creepy billionaires and locked rooms." He dragged a hand through his hair, panic buzzing under his skin. "They're doing witchcraft. Obviously. I'm the offering. I'm the sacrifice. That black thing wasn't a fruit—it was a warning."
He swallowed hard.
"What if that man brought me here just to kill me?" His voice cracked. "What if I don't even have a heart disease? What if that was never real?"
His thoughts jumped wildly.
"Then what were those things I felt last night?" he whispered. "That heat… my body responding like it had a mind of its own. None of that makes sense. None of this makes sense."
He let out a shaky laugh that bordered on hysterical.
"I'm fucked. I'm cooked. Completely cooked." He pressed his palms to his face. "Oh my God. Oh my God. Are they going to give me to the devil? I swear this is how it starts. Fancy house, secret rooms, ancient locks—and then boom, soul gone."
Normally, this was the point where he'd get up. Walk. Pace. Burn the anxiety out by moving.
But the moment he tried to shift his weight, his body protested sharply.
Aches flared everywhere—deep, sore, unforgiving.
He groaned and collapsed back onto the mattress.
"Great," he muttered. "Of course. Of course I can't even run."
A bitter thought crept in.
"Was this the plan? Make me stay here until I can't even move?" His chest tightened. "I can't fight. I can't escape. I can't even walk properly."
He turned his head, staring at the unfamiliar walls.
"This isn't normal. None of this is normal." His voice dropped. "And every time I ask questions, they dodge them. Like they already know I'm not supposed to understand."
Another thought struck him—and froze him.
If I ask too much… they'll know I know.
He sucked in a sharp breath.
"They'll know I figured it out. That they're planning something. Something bad."
His fingers curled into the bedsheet.
"No," he whispered. "I shouldn't ask. I shouldn't confront anyone."
A decision—fragile but urgent—formed through the fear.
"I should leave. Just… disappear." His heart pounded. "Run without telling anyone. Before they decide what to do with me."
He stared at the door.
"This place is not safe," he said softly. "And if I stay… I'm not surviving this."
The room stayed silent.
And for the first time since waking up, Eline wasn't afraid of what might happen—
He was afraid that whatever was coming had already started.
By the time the room went quiet again, Eline had made a decision.
I'll disappear tonight.
The thought felt sharp. Clean. Necessary.
But almost immediately, reality crashed into it.
Night.
His chest tightened.
No. He remembered now—too clearly. The heat always came at night. The way his body stopped listening to him, the way his thoughts blurred, the way instincts he didn't understand crawled to the surface.
If I try to leave at night… I won't make it past the door.
His jaw clenched.
Morning, then.
Not today. His body was still weak, sore, unreliable. If he tried now, he'd collapse halfway down the corridor and be found within minutes.
Tomorrow morning.
That would be it.
He swallowed, staring at the ceiling as if it might give him answers.
"They won't do anything tonight," he whispered, trying to convince himself. "Right? They won't kill me tonight."
Right?
He forced a shaky breath out.
"I'll take this as a chance," he murmured. "If I survive tonight, I run. No hesitation. No second thoughts."
Evening came too quickly.
A knock. Dinner. A tray placed neatly on the table.
Nothing unusual.
That, somehow, scared him more.
He ate mechanically, barely tasting anything, then lay back down as exhaustion dragged at his limbs. At some point, sleep claimed him—not peacefully, but heavily, like sinking under dark water.
And then—
The heat returned.
Stronger.
Sharper.
It bloomed inside him without warning, curling through his chest and stomach, spreading like fire beneath his skin. Eline gasped, fingers clutching the sheets.
"No," he whispered. "Not again."
He didn't know why it felt worse tonight. He didn't know that the house was full—that five of them were awake, breathing, existing within these walls.
All he knew was that it burned.
His body reacted on its own, pulse racing, skin too tight, thoughts slipping sideways. The familiar urge rose—the same one that had destroyed his sense of control the night before.
Find it.
Find him.
Eline squeezed his eyes shut.
"No. Don't move," he told himself. "If you leave this room, you're dead."
He pushed himself upright, legs trembling, and staggered toward the window instead. He fumbled with the latch and threw it open, gulping in the cool night air like it was oxygen.
Cold rushed in.
Relief—brief, fragile—washed over him.
"Okay," he breathed. "This is fine. This helps."
In his desperation, he made a mistake.
He pulled off his night clothes, baring his pale skin to the breeze, convinced that if the cold touched him directly, it would drown the heat out.
It didn't.
The moment the air brushed against him, the sensation intensified.
His breath hitched.
"What—why is it worse?" he whispered, panic clawing up his throat.
There was no air conditioning in the room. No way to control the temperature. The thought struck him oddly, even now.
What kind of place doesn't have AC in a room like this?
Not servants' quarters—fine. But this?
The heat surged again, coiling tighter.
The urge followed.
Go out.
Repeat it.
Do what you did yesterday.
His body felt wrong—too energized, too awake, buzzing with something dangerous despite the soreness still lingering underneath.
Eline dug his nails into his palm.
"No," he said aloud, voice shaking. "I'm not doing that. Not tonight."
He stayed where he was, breathing hard, forcing himself to remain still.
I'm not dumb, he told himself desperately. I'm not.
And then—
The door opened.
The sound was soft.
Deliberate,Unmistakable.
Eline froze.