𝔻𝕚𝕖 𝕋𝕣𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 ༺ Max Mayfield ༒ Male OC ༻

D༙i༙g༙

No one's POV

"What do you think of weaklings, Harry?" inquired Henry, his voice smooth yet edged with a hint of malice, as he gracefully maneuvered one of the chess pieces, making it hover momentarily in the air before deftly placing it down on a different square of the board with a soft thud. Harry, feeling a weariness settle in his chest, sighed softly, his gaze drifting towards the chess piece before he attempted to reach for his own. However, his hand was swiftly halted by Henry, who firmly grasped Harry's wrist, his grip a mixture of authority and control. "Not like that," Henry instructed, his tone both condescending and commanding, "do it like I did."

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, already aware of the exacting standards to which Henry held him.

"Don't be. Do it," Henry urged, pushing Harry further to embrace this strange and unsettling power they were toying with.

Understanding the weight of Henry's expectations, Harry nodded slowly as he began to retract his hand, a mix of reluctance and resolve flickering across his face. With his eyes gently closing, he allowed the world around him to fade into a quiet stillness. He concentrated, letting his breathing deepen and slow, feeling the rhythm settle into a tranquil cadence. Underneath his eyelids, his irises darted erratically as if grappling with unseen forces, and a subtle tension tightened his jaw. After a few tense seconds, a signal shifted within him, and with deliberate intent, the bishop chess piece began to levitate, gliding smoothly across the board, much to Henry's delight, who observed with a wicked smile etched across his face.

"Very good, Harry. Excellent." Henry praised, his kind words hiding certain malice, as Harry released a shaky breath, the pulse of adrenaline causing a small trickle of blood to run down his nose.

"Thank you," Harry replied softly, hastily grabbing a small tissue from the table, using it to dab at his nose, keenly aware of the physical toll this power extraction had on him.

"But you still haven't answered my question, Harry," Henry pressed, his curiosity piqued yet layered under a facade of calm.

Harry exhaled deeply, the sound echoing in the tense atmosphere before he leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes drift around the colorful walls of the room. It was the same rainbow-hued sanctuary they always convened in, but now it was crowded with children. Each of them had shaved heads and wore simple hospital gowns, and ominously, none of the kids were capable of interacting with Harry or Henry. They existed like mere shadows in some surreal, nightmarish movie.

"They're usually problematic. Weakness brings trouble," Harry remarked, directing his attention back to Henry, locking their gazes. "I was weak; that usually brought troubles to me. Like when my father hit me for losing a game, or when the kids would mess with me."

Henry nodded in understanding, his expression softening momentarily with a touch of empathy, "I'm truly sorry for hearing that, Harry. But I'm glad that you realize weakness brings nothing more than problems to humans." He sighed, a genuine note of sorrow escaping him, as he scanned the room filled with children. "Do you think they're weak?"

Harry shrugged, his gaze shifting to one of the children, eyes narrowing with judgment, "I don't know, maybe they are." Henry chuckled darkly, his earlier warmth fading, leaving behind a chill.

"They definitely are. Nothing more than weak children," Henry said, the venom in his tone evident. Suddenly, he turned sharply to look at Harry, who flinched instinctively, taken aback by the shift in Henry's demeanor. "Do you think weaklings can change, Harrison?" he questioned, now with an unsettling darkness wrapping around his words, tilting his head slightly, as if scrutinizing Harry for an answer.