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DATE:10th of May, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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I woke up in the hospital next to Sasha. Two days in a row here—I was starting to recognize the particular smell of this wing. The counselor was wrapped head to toe in bandages, mummified in white gauze. Apparently even LifeWeaver's reconstruction had its limits. Some wounds went too deep for even his ability to fully erase.
She was still unconscious, her chest rising and falling in shallow, mechanical breaths. I pressed the call button for a nurse, figuring the doctor would want to clear me before I left. And he'd definitely want an explanation for the woman's condition—one I wasn't sure I could give.
While I waited, I reached for the remote and turned on the TV for the first time in weeks. Light from the screen flooded the sterile room, and the headline scrolling across the bottom made me freeze:
"BubbleTV bombed today in terrorist attack."
What?
My first reaction wasn't shock because BubbleTV had been UltraMan's former employer—though it was. It was shock because the company was owned by Silvian Morris, one of the most powerful magnates in the city. He had contracts with half a dozen heroes to defend his properties. His buildings were supposed to be untouchable.
And yet, somehow, UltraMan wasn't one of those contracted heroes.
Interesting.
"Mordo and his league are restarting their war with terror," the news anchor announced.
Mordo. The name itself felt like a bad joke. He was a former hero turned villain, a zealot whose ideology was a tangled mess. Did he want to free the world from democracy? Capitalism? Or was his grand plan to enslave humanity while 'freeing' superheroes? From what I knew, he didn't have an actual platform beyond chaos.
His so-called "league" was just a pathetic response to UltraMan's own, and he hadn't been a real threat since the legend beat him into a pile of broken bones. Even I, who actively avoids the news, had heard about that spectacular defeat.
For him to be crawling out of the woodwork now meant only one thing: Superior Woman was having a hard time keeping the villains in check. The queen's grip was slipping. And why wouldn't it be? I wouldn't be surprised, especially with Lilliam—one of her greatest potential assets—wasting her time babysitting kids at this Academy. Did she think Alice wasn't emotionally fit for the real fight? If so, she'd be right.
But I don't think she's that smart. From the look of it, SuperiorWoman is cut from the same cloth.
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God, it took forever for the doctor to arrive. I sat there in that sterile silence, my mind circling back to what had happened. Sasha had almost killed this version of me—this self, whatever that meant. And that creature in my mind... who was it? No—what was it would be more accurate. It wasn't a 'who'. Not anymore. Maybe it never had been.
And what it did to her—unraveling her skin, peeling it away like the rind of some grotesque fruit. What kind of being was capable of that? It felt like I'd been dragged into some eldritch horror novel, the kind where the protagonist doesn't make it to the end with their sanity intact.
Whatever. I couldn't afford to dwell on it.
Eventually, John decided to drag his lazy ass down here. When he finally walked through the door, his expression was unreadable—somewhere between anger and confusion, brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. The whole situation probably looked bizarre from his perspective. After all, he had picked up a woman bleeding from every orifice in her own counseling office, with me covered in her blood and barely conscious myself.
Hard to explain that one away.
"So how exactly did this come to be?"
"I don't have much to say..." I kept my tone even, measured. "Sasha tried to enter my mind but was attacked by something inside it."
"What something?" John's eyes narrowed slightly.
I blinked. What kind of question was that? "As in, I don't know what. If a psyker like her got hurt, it must have been even stronger than her. Or maybe she was weaker than we thought..."
"How do you even know about her powers?"
My stomach dropped.
Oh shit.
I'd forgotten—she technically wouldn't have told me what she could do. Not explicitly. The realization hit like ice water. What if everything I'd seen in that void was just my mind scrambling to make sense of the incomprehensible? What if her perspective of the whole event was completely different? What if she hadn't actually told me she was psychic, and I'd just... assumed?
I scrambled for an explanation that wouldn't sound like a confession.
"Because she told me? Why? Was it a great secret?"
From the look on his face, it certainly was one. Damn.
Before John could respond, Sasha's eyes snapped open. She lurched upward with a strangled gasp, her voice raw and frantic.
"—Demon! A demon is inside of him!"
Oh, for fuck's sake. Piss off, Sasha. I don't need any more problems. John rushed to her side immediately, pressing her shoulders back down before she could tear her reconstructed skin.
"What do you mean, Sasha? Calm down—"
"He is cursed! Heretic!" Her wild eyes locked onto mine, pupils dilated with genuine terror. "William is a monster!"
I should have just let that thing kill her. This is what I get for trying to be nice? Ungrateful bitch.
"Stop exaggerating," John said firmly, his doctor voice kicking in. "Demons aren't real."
Now, now, John. According to recent polls, one in two people wouldn't agree with you on that one.
"What are you, an atheist?" The words slipped out before I could stop them. I probably shouldn't have said that.
"I am a realist, Will." John's voice was measured, clinical. "How can I just believe a demon cursed you?"
"He is cursed!" Sasha's voice cracked, desperate. "He... That thing tortured me so much..."
"Except it was me who begged it to let you go."
That shut her up. Her mouth hung open, words dying on her lips. Great. Now I had to cough up everything.
"I wanted to think otherwise," she whispered, her voice trembling. "But you're a killer. Cursed by so many souls. So many of them, excoriating your existence..." Her eyes glistened with something between horror and betrayal. "I thought we were the same... Who the hell are you?"
This. This is why I despise people who live in their sanitized little fantasies. What did she think I was? Some tragic victim caught in someone else's war? Did she imagine I'd lost my family like she had, that we shared matching trauma? She thought we bonded over similar scars?
How naive. How pathetically cozy her life must be here at the Academy if she could afford to think that way.
Who was she to judge me?
But I didn't care about Sasha's accusations. What annoyed me was the doctor standing beside me—John, completely unsurprised. Not even a flicker of shock on his face. He'd come to the same conclusion as the girl. When had he started suspecting me? How long had he been watching, waiting for confirmation?
I wouldn't go down here. Not like this.
"What do you even know about trauma, Sasha, that you think you can judge me?" My voice came out sharp, cutting. "Have you ever considered that maybe it was just you not being strong enough to take on my burden?"
That startled her. Her eyes widened, mouth opening slightly. Good. It was a start.
"Do you remember what you told me? That I wouldn't be alone anymore?" I could feel my pulse quickening, anger building momentum. "You touched my mind and exploded. And you wonder why I didn't want you to try it in the first place?"
I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the protest of my exhausted muscles, and moved to stand next to John so I could look down at her directly.
"Let me ask just like you did—who are you to take on my curses? Since when were we the same? Only you said that. You and Alice are always on this bullshit about how we're similar. Since when? Never! At absolutely no time did we correlate. Not even a little!"
The words came out harsher than I intended. I could feel John's muscles tensing beside me, his posture shifting subtly into something more alert, more ready. I didn't particularly want to get my ass whooped in a hospital room, so maybe I should dial it back.
But the damage was already done.
"Have you thought that I may just have a broken mind?" My voice softened, became almost confessional. "I won't lie—I abused drugs all my life. How do you expect to understand me when I don't even understand myself?"
"W-what made you like this?" Her voice was small now, fragile.
Ah. That was an easy one. Time to wrap this up and get out of here.
I glanced at John and gestured toward the door. "Leave."
He hesitated for a moment, jaw tight, then turned and walked out. I was certain he'd be listening just outside, ear pressed to the door like some concerned parent. Fine. Let him.
I turned back to Sasha, my expression carefully measured.
"Chasing an unattainable dream." The words came easily now, a well-rehearsed script with just enough truth to be believable. "What do you know of a life where you're constantly compared to your relative, yet you can never compete? You say you had no one, but wasn't the Academy a family to you? Why do you think I shared love with my parents?"
I let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
"And when I left to pursue my goal, just like that relative of mine, do you think I had any success? No. All my life I failed. I was on the run, isolated, untrusted. What do you know about such a life?" My voice hardened slightly. "How can you ever say we're similar? Get your head out of those fantasies, Sasha—this is real life."
That last part was important. Very significant. She needed to stop digging, stop trying to "save" me. Because the truth she'd glimpsed in my mind wasn't something either of us could afford her to understand.
"H-huh?! What do you mean by that? I never said it was—"
"I don't love you, Sasha." I let the words land cold and flat. "In the first place, your feelings are unfounded, based on a false creation of 'who you thought I was.'"
"I never said I loved you." Her voice wavered, defensive.
"Do you take me for a fool?" I stepped closer to the bed. "Or do you expect me to believe that you treat all the people you 'cure' like that?"
She opened her mouth but no words came. Good. I wasn't done with my offensive yet.
I reached down and took her bandaged hand, holding it gently—intimately even—as I prepared to deliver the ultimate move.
"In the first place, how does a girl who never left the Academy become its counselor?" I leaned in close, close enough that my breath would brush against her ear, and whispered in the same warm tone she'd used on me so many times before. "How does someone without any life experience expect to judge the character of others?"
I pulled back slowly, watching her face as the words sank in like poison.
"Or do you expect that memorizing some books, being intellectually talented, or even having an inhuman power in this regard makes you capable of it?" I let go of her hand, letting it drop back onto the bloodied sheets. "No. Not at all. Emotional maturity is something you gain through experience. Not like this."
Her lips parted. She wanted to say something—probably to defend herself, to argue, to fight back. But she stopped herself.
Because she knew I was right.
"Or do you think that you are able?" I pressed on, not giving her room to recover. "But with that logic, every powerful hero should have been like UltraMan—with a good heart, thinking about the citizens above all else... If having a similar power makes you like him, then how come UltraMan is the exception and not the rule?"
Silence. She still didn't respond.
"Don't you understand? You're a hypocrite. You're just someone who cosplays as a practitioner of psychology." I let each word hit like a hammer. "Who are you to judge what I lived through?"
Her mouth might as well have turned to stone. She sat frozen, staring at me with those wide, wounded eyes. But it wasn't shock that paralyzed her—it was something worse. I could see tears forming in the gaps between her bandages, glistening at the corners of her eyes. She was trying desperately to keep herself from crying, jaw clenched tight, throat working to swallow down the sob building there.
How was she so weak? To let me spew all of this at her and not defend herself even once. Wasn't she pathetic? I guess she never did grow out of that shell of a girl who came here all those years ago. A pathetic survivor of a war, clinging to the fantasy that she could save people like me.
Am I supposed to have any sympathy for that?
It was a job well done. A total victory. My strategy to change the subject and go on the offensive had stunned her completely. I rarely employed fast-talk like this because it was risky—it exposed you to critique if your opponent could keep up. But it worked like a wonder on slow-witted individuals like her, people who processed emotions faster than logic.
I turned toward the door, ready to leave this mess behind me. But then I remembered something.
"And... you called me a killer?" I turned back to face her, letting genuine confusion color my voice. "If I wanted to kill you, would I have saved you from that monster you speak of? Or would I have called John to get you to the hospital?" I spread my hands, the picture of wounded innocence. "Wouldn't I just leave you to bleed out? To die? If I was a killer, wouldn't that have been my choice? When I wouldn't even be suspected?"
I took a step closer, voice dropping lower.
"This unwinding of flesh you suffered—it's not part of my ability. Who would place blame on me? Wouldn't I have been the surviving victim?"
I could hear her whimper now, a small, broken sound escaping through her attempts to stay silent. She was foolish not to see through my bullshit. Perhaps she really was affected mentally by what she'd seen. Good. That made this easier.
"You really think I'm a killer?" I let righteous indignation seep into my tone. "Why didn't I kill you then? Answer me that!"
The air felt suffocating in the room, thick and heavy with her despair. But that was good. It meant I was winning.
I turned and walked toward the door without looking back. Behind me, I heard Sasha finally let go—a choked sob breaking free, then another, cascading into full weeping.
It may seem manipulative, but it was totally effective. And I wasn't sorry. Not even a little. If she was stunned by her own ineptitude, paralyzed by self-doubt, how could she ever think to blame me? This was a skill I'd honed over years of survival. I actually couldn't remember who I'd learned it from. I wanted to say the Changeling, but we'd interacted too little for me to have picked up much from him.
Whoever it was, they'd taught me well.
I wanted to leave alone—that would make more of a statement, the wounded victim walking away in dignified silence. But I didn't have any money on me to order a taxi, which meant I was at the mercy of my Black King.
Or... I could call Alice. Yeah, that was a better idea.
I locked eyes with John in the hallway. He stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked disappointed—but not with me. With himself. Was it because he didn't have the balls to intervene and save that girl from my verbal assault? Or had he also been fooled by my words, left doubting his own judgment? Either way, it was good for me.
After getting a few quarters from him with a mumbled request, I headed to the public telephone down the hall to call the dreadful girl.
Alice arrived surprisingly quickly, her car screeching to a halt outside the hospital entrance barely fifteen minutes later. I gave her a carefully edited version of what had happened—Sasha had tried to help with my trauma, something in my mind had hurt her badly, and now she needed rest. I omitted the whole "killer" part, naturally. The demonic possession accusations. The cursed souls. All the inconvenient details.
We left together, Alice casting worried glances at me every few seconds as she drove. For once, her strange, relentless optimism played into my favor. She felt genuinely bad about my 'traumatic experience', murmuring sympathetic words and promising that everything would be okay.
Haaah. If only Sasha could understand things this simply. If only she'd accepted my sanitized version instead of digging deeper, prying into places she had no business going.
But no. She had to be the hero. And look where that got her.
I couldn't stop thinking about the doctor. Sure, the counselor had looked into my mind and seen... something. But why would John suspect me of being a murderer? He certainly hadn't questioned my identity, so what was the problem? The only possible reason I could think of was the Vampire incident.
But why would that make me suspicious? Wouldn't I just be defending myself? That was self-defense, clear as day.
Or... no. No way. That would be so dumb.
The doctor might be suspicious of my skill. It was true—I'd killed her by stabbing the three most important arteries with precision. But that line of thinking was extremely stupid. To make absolutely sure she died, I'd stabbed her multiple times at each location. There should be no trace of surgical precision in that frenzied movement. It should have looked panicked, desperate. Furthermore, those pressure points weren't some secret forbidden knowledge. Anyone could search them online with a few keystrokes.
So what was it? What had tipped him off?
Maybe he'd thought Sasha would confirm his suspicions when she woke up. Then perhaps his disappointed expression in the hallway was him being sad for having doubted me in the first place. Guilty for not trusting his friend.
I sure hoped that was the case.
Because if it wasn't—if he was actually piecing things together—then I had a much bigger problem than just a traumatized counselor crying in a hospital room.
Then another thought occurred to me. I should probably have someone train me in martial arts. Not that I lacked combat training—I had plenty. But Will Carter Jr. wouldn't have that kind of experience. Or at least, it would be a massive stretch for him to have formal combat skills. As much as I hated the idea, Alice was the best option for this. I certainly wouldn't take any classes with Mr. Perfect and his insufferable superiority complex.
Alice loved the suggestion. Her eyes lit up immediately, and she started going on about how it felt like she was finally a mentor, how exciting it was to pass on her knowledge. I got the distinct impression she would have liked to be in UltraMan's shoes—the legendary hero taking a protégé under his wing, shaping the next generation.
Whatever. What mattered was that I now had a convenient excuse for my combat skill. A plausible origin story for any precision or technique that might raise eyebrows.
Alice also reminded me about the upcoming tournament exam, as if I could forget with all the chatter around campus. I suppose I'd never gone into detail about it in my thoughts, but that was mostly because I didn't care about it. The exam was essentially a final test before graduation, where they graded students primarily on combat ability.
Judging by the fact that eighty percent of heroes existed just to punch things and look good doing it, the tournament was fairly important as an evaluation tool. It helped graduates get recruited by agencies if that was what they wanted—a chance to show off their powers to potential employers.
When we returned to the Academy, I decided to take a stroll to calm myself. My body's exhaustion certainly hadn't been lifted by the previous day's events—if anything, the hospital visit had only added another layer of fatigue. But I needed to clear my head, to let the adrenaline from manipulating Sasha fade into something manageable.
As I wandered around the school grounds, movement in one of the side alleys caught my attention. One student was squaring off against five or so others. I recognized the group immediately—Sylvia's goons, her little gang of enforcers who did her dirty work.
Technically being a teacher, I should have gotten closer to stop them. Break up the fight before someone got seriously hurt. Call for backup, maybe.
Instead, I moved closer to watch.
What better television was there than this?
The alley was narrow, walls rising on either side like the edges of an arena, casting long shadows under the faint, sickly glow of streetlights. The five delinquents had formed a semi-circle around the lone boy, grinning with that particular brand of confidence that came from overwhelming numbers.
The one who seemed like the leader was a fire manipulator. He had slick hair that reeked of chemical products—gel or pomade, judging by the sheen. I wondered absently how he managed not to set his strands ablaze every time he used his power. I'd call him Boy A, since I'd never bothered to memorize my students' names.
His arms wreathed themselves in flames, flickering bright orange and red in the dim alley. He smirked with the confidence of someone who'd won too many fights against weaker opponents, then threw a blazing fireball at the lone student—Boy S, for lack of a better designation.
Boy S dove to the side, rolling across the grimy pavement just in time. The heat licked at his back, singeing the edges of his jacket. Boy A laughed, his flames growing hotter, more intense, turning the brick walls a scorching, blistering red. His arrogance made him reckless. He sent a torrent of fire cascading forward, but the "hero" deftly dodged by darting behind a dumpster, using it as cover.
Then I got bored.
Who knew kids fighting would get old so fast?
As I turned to leave, one of the thugs called out to me. I glanced back, surprised to see the situation had reversed completely. The lone kid was now beating the hell out of them, moving with impossible speed and force. I think he had some kind of superpower related to momentum—each hit seemed to build on the last, getting faster and harder.
"Hey! Aren't you going to stop this fight?"
"Why would I care?" I said flatly.
He didn't seem to like hearing that. Then Boy A was sent flying through the air, landing near my feet with a sickening crunch. The punch had clearly broken his nose—blood gushed freely, streaming down his face and chin. He looked up at me, furious and humiliated.
"What the fuck?! You just let him do that?"
"What exactly is stopping you from running away?" I tilted my head, genuinely curious. "You just don't want to embarrass yourself."
Rage flashed across his face. Angry at being called out, the boy attempted to summon flames to burn me. I kicked his broken nose before he got the chance, using the sole of my shoe so I wouldn't stain the leather. He screamed, clutching his face as his shirt reddened with fresh blood.
He started shouting something about how 'they' would hear about this, how I'd pay for this disrespect.
"What are you going to do? Snitch on me to the Dean? Retard."
It appeared Student S was about done with the delinquents. They scattered like roaches when the lights came on, Boy A stumbling after them while clutching his ruined nose.
The boy—man?—stood tall in the dimly lit alley, his athletic frame still tense with readiness. Around eighteen years old, he had a commanding presence for someone his age, the kind shaped by years of intense training at the superhero academy. His sharp features reflected steely resolve; dark eyes constantly scanning the scene for lingering threats and new opportunities. A faint scar ran along his right cheek, a souvenir from some past battle.
So edgy!
His hair was short, dark, and slightly tousled from the fight, with a few strands falling messily over his forehead. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow, but his expression remained calm and calculated. He breathed steadily, muscles taut but not exhausted. The one-versus-five hadn't even challenged him.
"Good job!" I said in a half-mocking tone, clapping slowly.
"Why do you care?" He dismissed my praise entirely and walked past me toward the alley exit.
Wow. That certainly frustrated me. I hadn't put "being ignored by my student" on my teacher arc bingo card. First Sasha, now this kid—why did everyone give themselves so much importance? Didn't they know how easily a human died? How fragile they really were?
But I suppose he was right in a way. I really didn't care about teaching his class. Or any class, for that matter.
My phone buzzed—a call from Alice. She'd secured us a training room for our first martial arts session. Guess my "round" had come. I headed back to my quarters, changed into some generic gym clothes, and made my way down to the underground facility.
The sparring room was dimly lit, the only sounds the soft shuffle of feet on padded mats and our rhythmic breathing. I stood on one side, lean and wiry, my body naturally falling into practiced stances. My past had shaped me into a master of precision—every strike, every parry normally executed with lethal intent, honed through years of operating in the shadows.
Of course, I couldn't actually use those skills. Not fully.
In front of me stood the hero.
Alice's power far surpassed mine. Each of her strikes hit like a freight truck—I'd felt one glance off my shoulder earlier and the entire arm had gone numb for thirty seconds. Despite her overwhelming strength, there was a lightness to her movements, a balance between raw power and grace that made her genuinely unpredictable. Her confidence was clear in the way she moved, with an effortless ease that suggested she knew she had the upper hand.
It was almost as if the fight was her natural habitat, and I was just visiting.
I darted forward, testing her defenses with a series of quick strikes aimed at her midsection. She met me with calm precision, deflecting each blow with minimal effort. Her strength was evident in how she absorbed my hits—barely budging as she redirected my attacks with swift, measured blocks.
Then she countered. A powerful kick arced toward my chest, the force behind it enough to send most opponents flying through the air and into the wall. But I had one advantage over her superhuman abilities: years of actual combat experience.
I twisted away just in time, feeling the air displacement from the speed of her strike whoosh past my ribs. That would have broken bones. Multiple bones.
I dropped all pretenses of inexperience. Maintaining the act while getting my ribs caved in wasn't worth it.
I closed the distance again, launching into a controlled flurry of fast punches and kicks, relying on my agility and technique to create openings. Yet every time I thought I had one, she was already a step ahead. She moved with calm dominance, reading my attacks before they even fully developed, adjusting her guard with infuriating accuracy.
She wasn't just relying on brute force—though she clearly could have ended this instantly if she wanted to. Instead, she was matching my skill and surpassing it with her sheer physical superiority and combat intuition.
A dangerous combination.
At one point, I managed to sweep her leg, attempting to knock her off balance. For a split second, I thought I'd succeeded. But she barely faltered. She pivoted smoothly, using the momentum I'd given her to spin into a vicious counterattack, landing a heavy fist against my guard that sent me staggering backward.
The impact reverberated through my already exhausted arms, rattling my bones. I knew with absolute certainty that if she'd landed a clean hit—if I hadn't gotten my guard up in time—it could have ended the match right there. Possibly ended me requiring medical attention.
Despite her clear advantage, my face remained impassive. It wasn't like I was scared. I wasn't intimidated by her strength, overwhelming as it was. I'd once met a combatant far more terrifying than Alice could ever be—someone whose very presence promised death.
I could feel my muscles giving out, trembling with fatigue. Meanwhile, she seemed to be holding back, as if she hadn't yet tapped into her full potential. This was her warming up.
With a final surge of effort fueled by stubborn pride, I lunged again, attempting to outmaneuver her with a rapid series of feints and strikes—old tricks from my arsenal, techniques designed to confuse and misdirect.
But the young hero remained unshaken. Her movements stayed precise and powerful, utterly unfazed by my desperation. She ducked beneath my punch with minimal effort, and in a blur of motion that I barely registered, swept me off my feet with a single, fluid kick.
I hit the mat hard, the breath knocked from my lungs. My chest rose and fell quickly as I struggled to catch my breath, staring up at the fluorescent lights overhead. She stood over me, her stance solid and unyielding, yet there was no arrogance in her expression—only quiet, earned confidence.
Alice offered me a hand to help me up, a faint smile playing on her lips.
I took it, obviously. Pride wouldn't help me off the floor. I pulled myself up to her level, muscles protesting every movement.
"You're stronger than you look," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the fact that my pride had taken a significant hit.
Alice smiled, a lightness in her tone. "And you're faster than I expected."
There was what she perceived as mutual respect between us, an unspoken acknowledgment of our different but equally formidable skills. At least that's how she saw it.
To me? It had been a herculean task just to survive. I don't think I'd even made her use half of her real strength.
We returned to the dorms together, both drenched in sweat. Every muscle in my body screamed for rest. I wanted nothing more than to take a shower and collapse into bed, but when I got to my room, I couldn't find my shampoo anywhere.
Alice mentioned it was in her room. Had she borrowed it? I was too tired to question why.
We went there, and I was greeted by a somewhat clean space for once—she'd actually tidied up. The girl insisted I sit down, wanting to talk more about Wednesday's events with Sasha. By that point, I was barely even aware of what was happening around me. The exhaustion had settled into my bones, making everything feel distant and hazy.
Somewhere in between her crying about how worried she'd been and hugging me tightly, she kissed me.
Then we had sex.
I wasn't really aware of these events as they happened—they kind of just... occurred. My body went into some kind of autopilot, instinctual mode, while my mind floated somewhere far away. I was so tired I could barely process what was happening, let alone make conscious decisions about it.
Did she engineer this situation on purpose, knowing I'd be too physically exhausted to resist? I don't think so. Alice wasn't calculating like that. But the question lingered uncomfortably in the back of my mind. It reminds me of that time with the vampire. This bitch didn't even need hypnosis to succeed where that creature failed.
Perhaps she wasn't even aware of my lack of consciousness.
Her stamina was insane. Superhuman, literally. I lost consciousness not long after we finished. I didn't really like it.
Strangely, that night I slept remarkably well. Perhaps I was just too tired.
For once in a long time I didn't see my father's ugly mug.
—