An hour later, Darian was flat on the bed, pale, legs trembling, feeling like he'd been wrung dry.
"…Finally got it…" he muttered.
The pass in his hand wasn't just some trinket. Two functions—clear as day.
One, it let him hop worlds and back again. Two, it worked like storage—carry things both ways.
From what he could tell, only things he touched could come through. Inside, time just froze—put it in, take it out, same as it went.
By his guess, space was about a cubic meter. But it didn't feel fixed. Maybe with time, maybe with use—it'd stretch bigger.
One way or another, it had room to grow.
He could stash or pull things out with just a thought, so long as he actually owned the stuff and it fit inside. Neat trick—he even found he could swap clothes in a blink.
World-hopping, hauling stuff in and out—it bled him dry. Push too hard, and his body could seize up, leave him paralyzed like a brick.
Darian knew opening the passage every three days kept him safe. Push it further? Death wish.
Storage was lighter work. Unless the thing was huge, it barely touched him. With a cubic meter to mess with, he could swap stuff a dozen, maybe twenty times a day without breaking a sweat.
But he overdid it—kept messing around for half an hour straight. Clothes, item, back and forth—hundreds of times.
Body finally quit on him. Dropped cold.
Good thing he wasn't dumb enough to force a world jump. That could've been real bad.
He dragged himself to the shower, crashed after. Woke up—sun already high.
"Eh, ain't that bad," he muttered at the mirror. Little pale, still sharp. He exhaled.
Quick wash, towel off, grabbed his phone. Two message pings, one missed call. All from Eliana.
She ran through the usual chat—how's the health, any side effects. Then dropped it casual: "My old man's out for a bit, but the appraiser's in. Bring those antiques by, have him check 'em."
Antiques, huh. He smirked at the quotes. Whatever—he hauled it back already, might as well see if it's worth anything.
He texted Eliana back—'thanks for the concern, dinner's on me.'
She didn't hesitate, 'Sure.'
Darien checked the map on his phone and looked for a nearby restaurant with decent reviews. Once he picked a spot, he changed clothes and headed out.
"Darien, over here!"
Eliana was already at the table when he walked in. Off-white dress, black bag slung over one shoulder, heels clicking—nothing like her usual jeans-and-sneakers vibe.
He stopped for a beat. First time seeing her like this, and yeah, she looked good.
"You clean up real nice," he said with a grin.
"Thanks, Darien."
Eliana looked pleased—she didn't usually dress up, always more the travel-and-sneakers type. But tonight, it landed.
They grabbed a table at Katz's Delicatessen, Darian ordered a spread—pastrami on rye, matzo ball soup, a couple sides.
Didn't seem like much, but it was enough for two.
Thing was, Darian noticed his stomach wasn't getting full the way it used to.
Normally, he'd be stuffed by now, but he still felt like he could eat more.
Afterward, Eliana gave his sleeve a playful tug. "C'mon. Antique Street's right down the block."
Sure enough, the place was lined with stalls, every table piled with "treasures" that looked like they'd been dragged straight outta grandma's attic. Half of it screamed fake from ten feet away.
"Not real," Eliana murmured in his ear. Clearly she knew her way around.
"Figures," Darian shrugged.
They kept walking. The deeper they went, the stalls thinned out, replaced by real shops. Eliana finally stopped in front of a carved wooden door with a brass sign:
L'Atelier des Antiques.
Darian raised his brows. "This your 'little shop'? Doesn't look so little to me."
L'Atelier des Antiques. Three floors, easy thousand square meters. In a city where every inch costs a fortune, this wasn't some hole-in-the-wall. Eliana clearly wasn't playin' broke—girl had money.
Eliana nudged his arm. "Darien, Stop daydreamin'. Let's go, I'll introduce you to Monsieur Dupré."
Up on the third floor, they walked into the reception room. Gray-haired Lucien sat there, like he'd been glued to that chair since the last century.
After the quick hellos, Darian skipped the small talk. He pulled a chalice outta his bag—looked old, heavy.
"Monsieur Dupré, found this up in the mountains the other day. Feels like an antique. Mind takin' a look?"
Lucien Dupré—oldest appraiser in the joint. If Eliana hadn't vouched, he wouldn'ta even glanced up from his espresso..
Antiques from the mountains? Please. Like history just falls in your lap same way you trip on a sidewalk crack.
Still, kid's a friend of the lady, so Lucien played nice. No airs, just get it over with, stamp it, send Darian on his way.
Darian set the chalice down. Lucien slipped on the white gloves, lifted it casual. A few glances in—his face shifted.
"...Well now. That's somethin'."
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🔍Did you know?
- The profession of antique appraisers has existed for centuries. Experts use their knowledge and tools to authenticate historical artifacts, determining their age, origin, and value—just like Lucien Dupré in this chapter.
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