Carlson didn't move.
Eline's words were still hanging in the air—
"Are you trying to kill me like this…?"
Messy. Breathless. Half-senseless.
And yet
They lingered.
Carlson looked down at him.
Eline's chest was rising unevenly, his lips slightly parted, his eyes unfocused—but not empty.
There was something there.
Something Carlson couldn't quite categorize.
And that… irritated him.
He straightened slightly, just enough to create space between them.
Not too much.
Just enough to think.This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
From the beginning, there had been only one purpose.A body,A function,A means to an end.
That was all Eline was supposed to be.
Carlson had made that clear to himself.
Repeated it and Believed it.
So why?
His gaze dropped again, slower this time.
Why was he still here?
He should have left.
The moment the purpose was fulfilled.
That was how it had always been.
Clean. Controlled. Detached.
And yet—
His hand was still resting on Eline's waist.
Not moving,Not letting go.
Carlson's jaw tightened slightly.
Annoying.
This… hesitation.
This unnecessary prolonging.
It didn't suit him.
Eline shifted beneath him, barely conscious of it.
Instinctively-
Carlson's hand adjusted with him.
Stabilizing him.
Without thinking.
That's when he noticed it.
The reflex.The lack of distance.
And for the first time-
Carlson's expression darkened, not with anger
But with awareness.
This is wrong.
Not morally.
Not ethically.
But,Logically.It didn't align.
Didn't fit into any pattern he had ever followed.
His kind did not linger.
Did not watch.
Did not… feel.
Carlson exhaled slowly.
Controlled.
Measured.
"It's the potion," he muttered under his breath.
That had to be it.
The body reacts.
The mind follows.
Temporary.
Explainable.
He had seen it before.
Just… not like this.
Not this persistent.
Not this… quiet.
His eyes moved to Eline's face again.
Still flushed.
Still vulnerable.
Still completely unaware of the effect he was having.
And that—
That was the problem.
Carlson leaned back slightly, creating more distance this time.
Enough to regain control.
"This changes nothing," he said quietly, more to himself than to Eline.
Eline didn't respond.
He was already slipping—half-asleep again, caught between the potion and exhaustion.
Carlson watched him for a few seconds longer.
Longer than necessary.
Longer than reasonable.
Then—
Slowly—
He stood up.
This time, he didn't hesitate.
Didn't pause halfway.
Didn't look back immediately.
But as he reached the door—
His hand stopped on the handle.
Just for a second.
"…Annoying," he muttered.
And this time—
He didn't clarify what he meant.
The situation.
The boy.
Or himself.
Morning arrived quietly, slipping into the room without permission.
Eline woke with a faint groan, his body heavy, his head clouded by a dull, persistent ache. For a few moments, he lay still, eyes half-open, trying to gather his thoughts—but they refused to come together. The only thing he could recall clearly was the alcohol. The sharp burn of it, the warmth that followed. After that, everything dissolved into a blur. No faces, no voices, no memory of how he had ended up in bed.
He frowned slightly, pressing his fingers against his temple. There was a strange unease in his body, something unfamiliar, but too vague to grasp. He chose to ignore it.
Across the mansion, Carlson had already been awake for hours. He had made a decision, a simple one—he would not visit Eline that morning. There was no necessity, no reason to. The purpose had been fulfilled, and anything beyond that was… excess. Unnecessary. Undisciplined.
And yet, the thought of going to that room had crossed his mind more than once.
He dismissed it each time.
What lingered beneath was not desire, not attachment—at least, that was what he told himself—but something far more inconvenient. A hesitation. A pull that did not align with logic. So instead of indulging it, he left the mansion earlier than usual, convincing himself that distance was control, and control was all that mattered.
Eline, unaware of any of this, found himself restless. The room felt suffocating, the air too still, his thoughts too loud. Without giving it much thought, he got up and stepped out, his feet carrying him toward the garden as if drawn there. The morning air was cool, brushing against his skin, easing the weight in his chest just slightly.
When the time for breakfast came, he didn't return inside.
The thought of the red soup alone made something in him recoil. It wasn't the taste—he knew that well enough. Once he started, he could never quite stop. But the sight of it, the sameness, the quiet insistence that he consume it day after day—it suddenly felt unbearable. For once, he wanted something different. Or perhaps, just the freedom to refuse.
A maid approached him not long after, her steps careful, her tone respectful as she reminded him that breakfast was ready. Eline didn't look at her. His gaze remained fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused.
"Can I skip it today?" he asked, his voice carrying a faint strain. "I don't feel like eating. If I try, I might just throw up."
It wasn't defiance. It wasn't rebellion.
Just exhaustion.
The maid hesitated, uncertain. This was not a decision she could make. After a brief pause, she excused herself and left.
Eline assumed that was the end of it.
He was wrong.
The sound of footsteps returned—not hesitant this time, but firm, measured, and unmistakable.
"You really have the audacity to make someone come all the way here just to tell you to eat?"
The voice cut cleanly through the quiet.
Eline looked up at once, surprise flashing across his face. "You're here?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Lucian stood before him, his expression edged with irritation, though not entirely untouched by curiosity. He had not expected this—being called out for something so trivial, and yet being made to come personally.
As their eyes met, something shifted.
For Eline, the memory came uninvited—the night they had shared, the only moment that tied them together. It surfaced abruptly, sharp enough to make him avert his gaze almost immediately. He looked down, avoiding him, as if that alone could push the memory away.
Lucian noticed.
The reaction did not escape him.
And for a fleeting moment, the sharpness in his expression softened—not entirely, not openly, but enough to dull its edge.
He stepped closer and sat beside him, his presence still firm, still commanding, but no longer entirely distant.
"Eat your breakfast," Lucian said, his tone steadier now. "It's important. You're not like us. Your body needs preparation if it's going to carry anything."
Eline exhaled quietly, his fingers curling slightly against his own palm. "I know," he said, his voice lower now. "I understand that. I just… want a break. I don't like how it looks."
It sounded small when spoken aloud. Almost childish.
Lucian turned his head slightly, observing him from the side. There was something unguarded about him in that moment—something almost fragile. Not defiant, not resistant in the way one would expect, but simply… unwilling in a quiet, human way.
It was unfamiliar.
Lucian went silent for a moment, as if weighing something he did not fully understand. Finally, he spoke again.
"It's not something I can change," he said. "If I could, I would. But you still have to eat it."
The words were neither harsh nor gentle. They simply existed.
And then, unexpectedly, Eline's composure faltered.
His vision blurred, and before he could stop it, a tear slipped down.
He blinked, almost confused by it, but more followed.
"Why do I have to?" he asked, his voice breaking slightly despite himself. "Can't I just take a break? Just for one day? I said I don't like it…"
His words came faster now, uneven, unfiltered.
"You don't let me do anything. This is the only thing I can even complain about."
He stopped, his breath unsteady, his thoughts scattered.
It wasn't something he had planned to say.
It simply… came out.
Perhaps it was the remnants of last night's alcohol, still clouding his mind. Perhaps it was the weight of everything he had held back finally slipping through. Or perhaps it was something simpler—that, for once, he didn't have the strength to keep it contained.
And what unsettled him most-
Was that he didn't even know why he was crying