"What the fu—"
The ring pulsed again.
His voice barely left his throat — panic choking what words remained.
Cold one second, hot the next. The hum grew louder. Steady. Alive.
Damon stumbled back, eyes wide, breath sharp. He yanked at it — twisting, pulling, shaking his hand like force alone could free him.
It slipped loose.
The ring spun through the air, clinking across the table, rolling toward the open window.
He lunged.
His breath caught as it teetered on the edge, his body halfway outside. The night wind cut against his face, cold and sharp.
He caught it — just in time.
He didn't move. Just stared at the drop below.
"I'd be dead if I fell… just like you always wanted," he muttered.
It didn't feel cold.
Didn't feel magical.
Just… normal.
He slid it back on, breathing slow. The faint shimmer that had lit his room moments ago — gone.
Darkness again.
Morning came too fast.
Traffic murmured outside his window. His father's door — still shut.
He brushed his teeth, threw on his black Southmere High uniform — tie loose, shirt untucked.
He looked fine. Almost cool.
But the mirror didn't lie. The ring glinted faintly.
Breakfast sat untouched. Hunger left days ago.
He walked to school with one strap of his bag slung over his shoulder, hands buried in pockets.
The club meeting dragged.
By afternoon, he was in the gym helping Natsuki practice.
"Fourteen threes in thirty minutes. New record," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Silence. She drank water.
"How's your dad doing?" she asked softly.
"He's drunk."
He bent to grab his bag.
She caught sight of the scars.
"Has he been hitting you?"
"Yeah… but I'm fine."
"You're not fine." Her tone sharpened. "You've been dull in class, eating lunch alone on the roof. I'm trying to help you."
"I said I'm fine."
Her eyes flashed. "No. You don't get to give me attitude. It's been three months since the funeral, Damon. I've been there — even while losing someone too."
Tears welled up.
"What do you mean?" he asked quietly.
"My dad has Alzheimer's," she said. "You'd have known if you'd been there… I'm your best friend."
"Natsuki, I'm so—"
"Don't bother." She swung her bag over her shoulder. "You'd rather bury it than talk about it."
She walked off.
He didn't follow — just stared at the floor, guilt pressing heavy on his chest.
By evening, he reached the Monster Note Memorabilia Auction early.
(He still thought that name was dumb.)
Rows of chairs. A makeshift stage. Old posters on faded walls.
A man in his thirties — clean suit, slick hair — walked up.
"You're the one Natsuki's mom talked about?"
"Yeah."
"Appreciate the help. Mind holding that ladder steady?"
Damon nodded. They worked in quiet rhythm — moving boxes, fixing cables.
Then—
Crash.
The top speaker broke loose, falling toward one of the helpers.
"Hey! HEY! Mr. Seijuru!"
He didn't think — he moved.
Feet pounding. Weaving through crates and cables. The world blurred at the edges.
He reached just in time, shoulder slamming the stand, both hands catching the falling speaker.
His knees buckled — but he held.
The man blinked, stunned.
"Woah, kid, you just saved my life. How'd you get here so fast?"
"I was… nearby."
The man chuckled. "You look skinny but strong. Ever thought of joining the track team?"
"Not really."
"Well, if you ever need something, come find me."
The event went on — lights, voices, bidding — but Damon couldn't stop replaying it.
That speed. That strength.
It didn't feel human.
When it finally ended, the moon was high.
He looked up.
"Mom loves the moon," he whispered.
He raised his phone for a photo.
Then froze.
She wasn't there anymore.
He took the long way home, hands deep in his pockets.
Halfway there, he cut through an alley — shortcut.
Bad idea.
Three guys. Drunk. Loud.
"Yo, pretty boy," one slurred. "Thought you could skip out on us, huh?"
"Wrong guy," Damon said, trying to pass.
One grabbed his collar.
Fists followed — gut, face, ribs.
Laughter echoed off concrete.
Pain. Noise. Then— silence.
The ringing in his ears wasn't from the hits. It was from the ring.
It glowed again — brighter, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. The men didn't even see it.
Then—
BOOM.
A flash. One screamed, clutching his eye.
"You bastard!" another yelled, swinging a bottle.
But Damon was already moving — left, right — faster than thought.
Every dodge left a faint afterimage, like a glitch in time.
He didn't understand it.
But he liked it.
He struck back.
A punch — thunder.
Another — steel.
Each hit sharper, faster, heavier — power roaring through his veins.
One man hit the wall.
Another crashed through crates.
The last tumbled into a dumpster.
Silence again.
Damon stood there, panting. His hands trembled, but his chest burned — alive.
He looked at the shimmer fading from his hand.
"…What the hell is happening to me?"
Then he heard it.
Engines. Laughter. Boots scraping asphalt.
Dozens of shadows in the distance.
He cracked his knuckles, eyes cold.
"Alright…" he muttered, stepping forward.
"…let's end this."