Daylight had become Damien's enemy.
His once-improving grades stalled. The slow climb toward average was slipping again. He dozed off mid-lecture, head tilted back, mouth open, eyes twitching from half-remembered fights.
"Thorne, if I see you drooling on the console again, I'm ejecting you from this class. "His instructor's voice barely registered.
Damien blinked, barely lifting his head. "Wouldn't be the worst thing that's happened to me this week."
Even in sparring, he wasn't himself. He took a roundhouse to the side that he should've seen coming blindfolded. His counterattacks were sluggish. Uncharacteristically messy.
Flat on the mat, staring up at the training room's steel-ribbed ceiling, he muttered, "This isn't sustainable. I think I'm gonna die."
Across the room, Mila Evermeere's eyes narrowed. She'd been tracking the pattern—his tardiness, his bruises, the way he sat in class like a corrupted data stream trying to reboot.
She'd been noticing the patterns—his tardiness, his bruises, his focus fading like a corrupted data stream.
"You're burning out," she said quietly. But something didn't add up. His injuries weren't from sparring. His reflexes weren't just dulled from boredom. He looked like someone coming home from war, not school.
He rolled onto his side. "Thanks, doc. Anything else in my chart?"
"Yeah. You're an idiot."
"Not news."
Her gaze dipped to his bandaged knuckles. "Those aren't from training. And your reflexes? They're not dulled from lack of sleep—they're dulled from overuse. You look like someone coming home from war, not class."
Damien snorted. "You ever been to the cafeteria at rush hour?"
"Deflection," she said flatly.
And she wasn't the only one watching.
Auren Valebright, the undefeated champion, stood on the upper balcony of the training hall, arms folded, eyes narrowed. His AI picked up data from Damien's last ten sessions—drop in performance, erratic patterns, stress markers.
He called down, voice even. "You keep bleeding performance like this, you won't make it to the next bracket."
Damien sat up, scowling. "Good to see you too, golden boy."
Auren's eyes narrowed just enough. "You fought me like a storm was behind you. Now you fight like the storm's eating you alive. Which is it?"
"Maybe I just fight how I feel," Damien shot back.
He'd been analyzing Damien ever since the final match. Ever since he felt that primal storm in the final ten seconds. "You're hiding something," Auren whispered. "But what are you burning for?"
The truth was simpler than either expected.
Damien wasn't saving the world. He wasn't on some noble crusade. He was just pissed off.
Angry at being ranked third because he couldn't recite historical footnotes. Angry at sitting in class while others injected power into their veins. Angry that even after everything, they still looked at him like an animal.
Beating down fusion criminals in the back alleys of Xyprus gave him one thing:
Relief.
A release. A purpose. An excuse to hurt what he couldn't become.
"You're not Batman," Mila snapped at him one day when he stumbled into their study session with a bruised shoulder and bandaged knuckles. He looked at her, tired eyes barely lifting.
"Didn't say I was."
"Then stop acting like a vigilante in a bad comic book."
He didn't respond.
But that night, he didn't go out.
For the first time in weeks, he slept.
And the city survived just fine.
AI-enhanced patrols swept the streets. Civilians used cheap-grade serums for defense. The world didn't fall apart without him.
Maybe—just maybe—he didn't need to fight every night.
But as his eyes closed and his body finally gave in to sleep, something else stirred in the dark.
Because while Damien rested…
Null Sanctum was preparing to move.