Eline tried again.
He placed his foot on the first brick. Then the second. When his foot reached the third, he froze.
Nope.
He immediately climbed back down, landing on the ground with a frustrated exhale.
"No. No way. If I put my foot on the fourth one, I'll just fall again."
He stared at the wall like it had personally offended him.
"I need more grip."
The solution came instantly—obvious, simple. He bent down, slipped off his shoes, then his socks, tossing them aside without ceremony.
"Barefoot it is."
This time, when he climbed, the bricks felt different beneath his skin—rough, solid, honest. His toes curled instinctively, gripping where his shoes had failed him.
One brick.
Two.
Three.
Better.
His heart pounded as he pushed himself higher, muscles trembling, breath shallow. Somehow—somehow—he reached the rectangular opening near the top of the wall. The one that led into the small cat house structure.
He wriggled through awkwardly, half his body inside, half hanging out.
For a second, he just stayed there, chest pressed against stone, legs dangling.
Then he looked outside.
It was still dark. Not night—just that strange, hushed blue of early morning. Around 6:30 a.m. The road stretched empty in both directions. Silent trees. Silent houses. No people. No cars. Nothing.
It was eerie.
But not unfamiliar.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "I've been out at this time before."
A memory flashed unhelpfully.
"…to steal eggs from the neighbor's chickens."
He frowned.
"Why are you remembering this right now?" he hissed at himself. "Focus. You're escaping a mansion. Priorities."
He dragged the rest of his body through the opening, scraping his elbow slightly, then let himself drop.
His feet hit the footpath.
He froze.
Nothing happened.
No alarms.
No shouting.
No vampires descending from the sky.
He straightened slowly and looked around.
"…Whoa."
The neighborhood was ridiculously rich. Huge houses lined the road, all manicured lawns and quiet confidence. Even the footpath beneath his bare feet was spotless.
He looked down.
"My clothes didn't even get dirty."
Of course. Even the pavement here lived better than him.
He started walking.
Only after a few minutes did he realize—
"…Shit. My shoes."
He glanced back once, then shrugged.
"Whatever. Shoes are not that important in my life."
He kept going, barefoot and determined, the cool stone grounding him as he followed the road toward the bus stand.
"I'll just take the bus," he told himself. "Go back to my old apartment. The old lady probably still has it. It's only been two weeks."
A pause.
"…Or maybe she rented it already. But I'll ask."
Another pause.
"I'll find another job. Any job."
By the time he reached the bus stop, the sky had lightened just a little. The board showed the first bus arriving at 7:30 a.m.
One hour.
Eline sat down on the bench, hugging his arms around himself—not from cold, but from everything else.
"One hour," he murmured.
And for the first time since waking up in that house, he let himself believe—
I might actually get away.
Eline sat there, elbows on his knees, staring at the empty road like it might give him answers.
Okay, he thought. Next step. Find a job.
Simple. Doable.
Then—inevitably—his brain ruined it.
What if they try?
The thought slid in quietly, poisonous and calm.
What if they actually put in a little effort?
He swallowed.
Because that's when he remembered—special. Carlson's voice. The way they looked at him. The room. The tree. The fruit.
"No," he muttered under his breath. "I'm not special. I'm just… the offering."
That word still felt ridiculous. Unreal. Like something out of a bad horror movie.
But then another memory hit him, sharper.
My address.
His stomach dropped.
"Oh my God," he whispered. "I gave him my real address."
No—wait.
He frowned, retracing it carefully.
"I didn't give it to them, did I?" he murmured. "That man arranged everything. He already knew it."
Which was worse.
Because that meant—
"He knows where I live."
What if he gave that address to the butler?
What if they come looking for me?
Eline straightened suddenly, heart racing.
"No. No, no. I can't go back there."
That apartment was no longer safe. Not even a little.
"I'll need a new place," he said softly, like saying it out loud might make it less terrifying. "Somewhere cheap. Somewhere temporary."
He rubbed his face with both hands.
"Oh my God."
This was going to be hard. Exhausting. Unstable.
But then he exhaled, long and shaky.
"…Still better than dying."
The bus stop remained silent. No footsteps. No engines. Just him and his spiraling thoughts, sitting barefoot on a clean, expensive footpath, trying to plan a future he hadn't expected to still have.
Lost.
Alive.
And running.
Eline checked the time again.
Any second now.
The bus was almost due—
and that's when it hit him.
"…Oh. I'm an idiot."
He was sitting on the wrong side.
He straightened, groaning softly. Of course. If he stayed here, the bus would take him straight back toward his old apartment—which he had just decided was a terrible idea. The other side of the road led to a different area. New streets. Cheaper places. A chance to disappear properly.
"Okay," he muttered. "New direction. New life. Less dying."
He stepped off the curb and started crossing at the zebra crossing. The signal was red for cars, green for pedestrians—very clear, very legal.
He was almost across when a car rolled forward and stopped far too close .
Too close,
Almost hitting him.
Eline froze mid-step, heart jumping into his throat.
"Are you blind?" he snapped before he could stop himself. "It's a red signal. Zebra crossing. You're not supposed to cross the line."
He glanced at the car.
Expensive. Glossy black. The kind of vehicle that whispered money instead of shouting it.
"Figures," he muttered. "You might have money, but not the brains, do you?"
He finished crossing, irritation buzzing under his skin, and shook his head.
"Stupid," he murmured—to the car, to the morning, to the universe in general.
He turned back toward the bus stop and sat down again, chest still tight from the near miss.
The car door opened.
Eline didn't look up at first. He just heard footsteps. Calm. Unhurried.
Someone sat down beside him.
The man muttered under his breath, clearly annoyed. Then, flat and dry, he said,
"You quite had your time running, didn't you?"
Eline stiffened.
That voice.
Slowly—too slowly—he turned his head.
Alaric.
Up close now. Impossibly composed for someone who had nearly committed vehicular manslaughter five seconds ago. His expression was cool, almost amused, like this was an inconvenience rather than an escape.
Eline's stomach dropped.