"Whatever it is you're planning—whatever it is you're trying to achieve by doing this—I swear none of you will get out of here alive. I will kill every last one of you."
Damon's face was filled with fury as he struggled through the excruciating pain coursing through his body, a result of the repeated and agonizing experiments being performed on him.
Behind a thick pane of reinforced steel glass, high-ranking officials stood observing him with cold, detached expressions. There was no trace of remorse in their eyes—only fascination. To them, Damon was nothing more than a lab rat, a subject of interest, a specimen with abilities they were desperate to understand and exploit.
Moments later, a woman approached a man who appeared to be the lead doctor overseeing the laboratory where Damon and Phoebe were being held. She stood before Damon, her eyes wide in awe, as if seeing someone she had long idolized—someone who had once fueled her dreams and ideas—now in the flesh.
"Sir," she reported, "the epidemic is getting worse due to the escape of our patient. Nearly the entire Pasay area is now restricted. The authorities can no longer contain the outbreak we released. And the Damon clone is still nowhere to be found."
The doctor let out a loud, amused laugh.
"Let him be," he replied coldly. "He's of no use to us anymore. We have the real Damon now, and we can extract an unlimited supply of pure blood from him—enough to replace anyone we want. I'm sure that clone won't survive more than a month. It's a miracle he even survived the transfusion of Damon's blood into his system. Sooner or later, he'll come crawling back to us—either begging for a cure or trying to kill someone using the power we gave him. Either way, it's no longer my concern."
The doctor adjusted his glasses with an indifferent smirk, his eyes fixated once again on Damon and Phoebe, treating them like mere tools—prized specimens for his twisted ambitions.
He placed a hand on Damon's shoulder, slowly leaning in to whisper something into his ear.
"Did you know… I admired you deeply. The Fool."
"If you hadn't been careless enough to throw away your jacket in the trash—sealed so neatly, I might add—this entire facility wouldn't even exist. So in a way… I should be thanking you."
His tone was mocking, twisted with glee.
"Of course, many of my colleagues died experimenting with that jacket. One by one, they dropped like flies trying to analyze the strange properties it held. We couldn't figure it out at first—until we discovered it was your blood causing all the deaths."
The doctor burst out laughing—an unhinged, maniacal laugh that echoed through the sterile laboratory walls.
Then suddenly, his expression hardened.
SMACK!
A deafening slap landed across Damon's face, its sharp echo piercing the tense silence.
"DAMON!" Phoebe cried out, her voice raw with panic as she watched the doctor strike him.
The doctor's gaze burned with emotion—conflicted, wavering between awe and pain.
"You know, Damon…" he said in a low, trembling voice. "There was a time I worshipped you. I saw you as a god… for everything you did to rid the world of corrupt scum. You were magnificent."
"But…"
His tone darkened.
"…I have a personal grudge against you too."
He paused, his jaw tightening as a single tear rolled down his cheek.
"The first person to touch that jacket… was my wife."
"Nicole," he whispered. "My beloved Nicole…"
He stared blankly, as if reliving the memory in real time.
"She was a collector. Loved gathering strange artifacts. She brought your jacket home, thinking it was just another specimen for her collection. But within hours, she collapsed. Vomiting blood… screaming in agony."
He clenched his fist, trembling with rage.
"That's when it all started. That's when we began researching your blood. Your curse. Your power. And then we uncovered everything—your identity, your past, your abilities."
"And now… here you are. Flesh and blood. The real Fool in the hands of people who know exactly what you're worth."
Behind him, through the steel-glass window, powerful elites stood watching—government officials, military sponsors, and anonymous funders. All of them had heard the rumors of The Fool. And all of them were hungry to taste his power… or turn it into the deadliest weapon the world had ever known.
Damon, weak and dazed, could barely keep his eyes open. His vision blurred from the constant blood extractions and invasive experiments. His body trembled, ice-cold from the exposure—stripped, vulnerable, and treated like nothing more than a lab animal. He didn't know how long he had been in that state. The pain had become a dull roar in his mind, overtaken by the numbness of exhaustion.
Then suddenly—he heard a voice.
A voice that pierced through the haze.
Familiar.
Unmistakable.
"Hey!"
"Hey, Damon!"
Damon's eyes snapped toward the sound—and there, standing right in front of him, untouched by the sterile world of steel and suffering around them—was the crow.
The same crow who had always watched him from the shadows.
The world seemed to freeze. Time stopped. And for a moment, it felt like Damon was the only one who could hear the bird speak.
"Why are you letting these pathetic low-life creatures treat you like this?" the crow mocked, its beady eyes scanning the doctors and officials behind the steel glass. "You, of all people. The Fool. Reduced to this?"
Damon lowered his head.
"I… I don't know what to do anymore," he muttered. "Even if I wanted to fight, my hands are bound. I'm useless without my card."
He clenched his jaw.
"If I had it with me, I could command every soul in this damn facility to tear each other apart. I could walk out of here untouched."
Then it hit him.
Claire.
The last thing he remembered before passing out from the gas…
His card.
He had handed it to her.
The crow fluttered its wings, stepping closer.
"I can help you," it said, calmly.
"I can give you a new copy of your tarot card. I'll place it directly in your hand."
"You'll end this. Kill everyone in this place. No exceptions. They're a plague to this world."
A spark lit in Damon's eyes. A deep, burning rage flared in his chest.
"Yes," he growled. "Do it. Give me the card. I'll slaughter them all."
But then… the crow's tone shifted.
"There's a price."
Damon's brow furrowed.
"What price?"
The crow turned its head toward the woman lying nearby—weak, but still conscious.
Phoebe.
The Justice.
"That woman... Phoebe," the crow said slowly.
"She's willing to sacrifice herself… for you."
Damon's eyes widened.
"Sacrifice? What are you talking about?"
The crow's voice was low and calm—yet unrelenting.
"Though all of you have already died once… the life you live now as an Arcana is borrowed."
"And there is a sacred rule between Crow and Arcana: one Arcana may transfer their ability—if they willingly forfeit their existence."
Damon shook his head, confused and desperate.
"You mean… if she gives up her Arcana for me…"
"She dies," the crow confirmed.
"Completely. No second return. No soul left in this realm."
Damon sat in silence, staring at Phoebe's unconscious form.
The decision hung like a guillotine over his head—freedom at the cost of someone who had stayed by his side through everything… or remain caged, powerless, as the world turned his blood into a weapon.
And the crow waited.
Unblinking.
Silent.
Ready.