The first sound was a punch of air, followed by Mandy's voice—a deep, rattling call that could probably crack plaster.
"Damien!"
Damien didn't just walk; he blurred. He took the stairs in one restless, twitchy movement and skidded into the kitchen. The walls here were reinforced, which was less of a design choice and more of a survival tactic in this house. Mandy stood there in her grease-stained blue overalls, her hands looking like they could crush a bowling ball. Right now, though, she was just expertly squashing an overstuffed hot dog.
"I-I asked for ketchup, dear," Dexter said. Damien's biological father sounded like he was fading out, his bony finger poking the bread on his plate.
Mandy didn't bother looking up. "We're out. You'll have mustard." She gave the bottle a heavy thwump.
Then Wess showed up. He didn't use the door—he just stepped over the dented threshold like it wasn't there. He snatched the food right off Dexter's plate, gave Mandy a quick, hard kiss, and opened his mouth for a massive bite. He had this look in his eyes, a sort of smug twinkle. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Damien didn't wait. The vibe in the room shifted from "annoying breakfast" to "high-velocity combat" in a heartbeat.
"I told you to quit stealing my dad's food," Damien said. He didn't scream it; he just sounded tired of the routine. He threw a low, sweeping kick that Wess blocked with an indifferent forearm.
Wess just grinned. "Relax, kid. I'll make him another." Mandy moved to stand by Dexter, giving Wess a playful, heavy-handed smack on the backside.
"Come and get it," Wess taunted, holding the hot dog up like a trophy.
That was it. Damien powered up. A white, wind-like aura of energy exploded out of him, dropping the air pressure so fast that the plastic plates on the shelves started vibrating. Mandy reacted instantly, planting her feet with a thud that shook the foundation. She hooked an arm around the floating, terrified Dexter and pinned him to the floor so he wouldn't drift away.
Damien charged.
He and Wess hit each other in a blur of noise and pressure. The air-shocks slammed into the reinforced walls like hammers. Damien dodged a couple of heavy swings and finally saw his shot: Wess was grinning too wide. Damien slammed his palm into Wess's chest and dumped every bit of kinetic energy he had into one burst.
With a sound like a wet cannon shot, Wess went airborne. He smashed straight through the closed kitchen door and tumbled into the hallway.
Damien dusted off his hands and put the hot dog back on Dexter's plate.
"Thanks," Dexter whispered, straightening his bent glasses. "You really didn't need to be that violent."
"I got you, Dad. Sorry for the mess, Mom. I'll fix it."
Mandy smiled, and for a second, she actually looked proud. "Take it outside next time, sweetie."
"Or maybe just make his plate first?" Damien suggested.
"First husband—" Mandy started. It was an old argument.
"First plate, I know," Damien finished. "But we do this every morning."
"He doesn't mind, right, honey?" Mandy nudged Dexter.
"No, it's... it's fine," Dexter said, cowering behind a small, tentative bite.
The sound of splintering wood signaled Wess was back. He walked through the ruined door frame, rubbing a shoulder and cracking his neck.
"Damn, kid. You're hitting harder."
"The weights are working," Damien said, glancing at the ceiling.
Wess's smile died. He looked genuinely annoyed now. "I wish you were my son. Wayne's probably still upstairs playing those stupid video games." He paused, the reality of his own kid's laziness finally sinking in.
"Waaaayne!!" he roared. The windows rattled. Wess started stomping toward the stairs.
Mandy gave Damien the look. The "go fix this" look.
Upstairs - Wayne's Room
The yelling was muffled by the thick soundproofing Wayne had plastered over his walls. The room was dark, cold, and lit only by a flickering TV. Wayne didn't move.
With a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand years of teenage misery, Wayne paused the game. The screen just said: YOU DIED.
Wess kicked the door in—not a slam, but a heavy crack of boots meeting wood. "Wayne! Drop the controller. Get your ass to the gym. I'm done!"
Wayne turned his chair slowly. The TV light made his pale face look even more bored.
"You dragged my soul out of peaceful nothingness without my consent," Wayne drawled, his voice a low, intellectual sneer. "And now I'm supposed to just do what you say? Just sell the house to a sane family and put me out of my misery."
Wess's brain seemed to stall out on the "nothingness" part, which only made him angrier. "Stop with the big words and listen!"
"No," Wayne said, his voice finally sharpening. "Now get out."
Wess tensed up, radiating power. "Damien!"
Damien was already there. He blurred through the hallway—a mess of patches and half-finished repairs—and shoulder-checked Wess. He didn't overdo it, but it was enough to send his stepfather tumbling back down the stairs.
Wess landed hard in the kitchen, collapsing into a chair. "I swear, I'm done with that kid," he muttered, reaching for his cold breakfast.
"Boys will be boys. Let him grow," Mandy said. She didn't even look up from Dexter's newspaper.
Damien's voice drifted down through the new hole in the ceiling. "I'll talk to him."
"Thanks, dear. Tell him I said good morning."
From upstairs, a flat, cold voice drifted down: "Go to hell."
Wess was back on his feet instantly. "What did you say?!"
"Come and get me, old man," Wayne taunted.
"Wess, calm down!" Mandy yelled.
Dexter just hid behind the shaking newspaper. "This is why we're poor," he whimpered, looking at the holes in his house.
Wayne's Window
Upstairs, Damien looked through the ceiling gap to see Wayne standing on the windowsill, a dark silhouette against the morning light.
"Hey, wait," Damien said.
Wayne didn't turn around. "Just let me die," he said. Then he jumped.