Drenched in sweat and completely overwhelmed by the situation, Damon stood frozen, lost in the chaos. Before him was the doctor whose smug expression only fueled his rage. Beyond the steel glass, he could clearly see the high-ranking officials watching with cold, calculating eyes—each face making his blood boil.
And then, the crow spoke again, asking for his final decision.
Time was still frozen. Only Damon and the crow existed in that moment, their voices untouched by the world outside. His eyes turned to Phoebe, unconscious and still. Her breathing was shallow, her body clearly weakened from the torment they both endured. The crow waited silently, patient, unblinking.
Damon stared at her intently.
He whispered to himself.
"This woman came into my life out of nowhere. She never asked for anything in return. And yet, she's been with me through every step of my mission as The Fool. Every plan I made, she strengthened. No complaints. No fear. And she's suffered just as much—maybe even more—under the hands of the same corrupt monsters we're trying to bring down."
He looked back at the crow, his eyes sharper now, more resolved.
"I'm sorry," Damon said calmly.
"If you see me in my worst state right now, if you think I've grown too greedy with the powers I've gained... maybe I have. But I won't sacrifice that woman."
He gave a small smirk—defiant and proud despite the pain wracking his body.
"Tell the one who manages you—your boss or whatever—that I reject the offer."
Damon's voice grew firmer, burning with conviction.
"This might be the best way to wipe out everyone in this place, but I'm not willing to trade Phoebe's life for that. Her life… it's worth far more than all the worthless scum in this facility combined."
The crow was silent, its eyes fixed on Damon—not with disappointment, but with an unreadable stillness, as if judging the weight of his choice.
And Damon, though trembling, had never looked more resolute.
The crow's silence lingered longer than usual. Its wings slowly stretched, then folded back, and it gave Damon one long, searching look.
"So be it," the crow said coldly.
"You have chosen weakness."
And just like that—time began to move again.
The sharp pain returned to Damon's body, the chill of the lab's cold air clung to his exposed skin, and the doctor's laughter rang back into his ears. Behind the glass, the officials continued observing like nothing had changed. Phoebe remained unconscious.
But deep in his mind, Damon whispered:
"Weakness? You couldn't be more wrong."
You see, Damon had never truly intended to accept the crow's offer—not out of blind loyalty, but because he didn't trust the crow. Not fully. Over time, Damon had learned something strange: the crows that appear to Arcana weren't just guides. They were also gatekeepers, and sometimes manipulators, bound to the ancient tarot's will but capable of personal motives.
But there was something the crow didn't know.
When Damon first received the Fool card, he didn't just gain one ability—he gained glimpses. Glimpses of possible futures. Echoes of alternate versions of himself. And among them, one stood out: a memory from a future where he was betrayed by a crow.
So he prepared.
Long before their capture, Damon had written a hidden failsafe spell into his own blood—activated only if the crow ever offered a "deal" that required someone else's sacrifice. He had masked it so well that even the crow hadn't noticed the subtle magic stirring the moment the offer was made.
As time resumed, Damon spoke softly, almost inaudibly, lips barely moving:
"Unlock."
And suddenly, a violent pulse of energy surged from within his own bloodstream, not outward—but inward. It short-circuited the dampening field around him.
The restraints binding his hands loosened—not physically—but metaphysically. The spell was working.
In the observation room, the equipment began glitching.
"Sir… the vitals are spiking! We're detecting tarot resonance inside the subject, but we don't see any physical card!" one assistant stammered, fearfully glancing at the monitors.
The doctor stared, confused.
"That's impossible. He doesn't have his card—"
And then the crow shrieked, flapping wildly above Damon.
"What have you done?" it growled, no longer calm.
But Damon just grinned, blood now dripping from the side of his lip—but his eyes glowed with a faint shimmer of gold.
"You thought the Fool only means ignorance and chaos?" he rasped.
"Sometimes the Fool is the Trickster. The Joker. The Wild Card."
From inside Damon's palm, a phantom copy of his tarot card burned to life—not real, not stable—but enough.
"Let's see how foolish I really am," he said—and then slammed his hand down.
Instantly, a psychic pulse exploded through the facility.
Everyone in the lab—not Phoebe—collapsed to the floor, grabbing their heads and screaming. Not dead—but trapped. Each one forced to live through their worst memory in an endless hallucination loop. Just like Damon had done to so many of the corrupt before.
The steel glass shattered inward. Monitors blew. Lights flickered violently.
The crow, still shrieking in pain, dissipated into smoke, unable to withstand the backlash of the spell it unknowingly helped activate.
Phoebe groaned softly—regaining consciousness.
Damon stumbled toward her, weak but alive.
He collapsed beside her and whispered:
"You're safe… I didn't give you up."
Phoebe, dazed but aware, looked at him with wide, teary eyes.
"You idiot," she said, smiling through her pain.
"I wouldn't have let you, even if you tried."