THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS VIOLENCE THAT MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR SOME READERS.
"What the fu—" Damon's voice broke off as the ring pulsed again, the sound caught in his throat, panic choking what words remained.
The ring went ice-cold, then blistering hot. A vibrant and steady vibration buzzed right through his bones. He stumbled back with his heart hammering against his ribs, wheezing as if he'd just taken a blow to the gut.
His hand pulled the ring, twisting, and shaking in in a desperate attempt to tear it free with sheer force, as though strength alone could undo whatever curse he thought had been placed on him.
It finally slipped loose and spun across the tabletop, clinking loudly before it rolled straight toward the open window. Damon dove after it.
His fingers swiped blindly as the ring teetered on the window's edge. The sudden blast of night air slapped his face, a freezing reminder of the high drop below but his hand grabbed the item just in time.
And then he froze, glancing down at the terrifying drop, the city lights blurred into streaks of indifferent colour.
"I'd be dead if I fell… just like you always wanted," he whispered in a flat and hollow voice.
The thought scared him more than the fall itself, and that fear pulled him back from the edge of his window. The ring wasn't even cold anymore. The magic, or whatever he thought it was, had just vanished, leaving a stupid, plain band of metal that felt like it was actively mocking him.
He slowly slid it back unto his finger as his breath slowed down. He exhaled heavily, and the faint shimmer that had lit his room moments ago was gone, covered by darkness again, save for the lights passing through the corners of the door
Sleep never came. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind replayed the memory of the ring's light over and over. He lay there, staring at nothing, with only one thought looping in his head.
'What... what the heck was that?'
Six Months Later...
He sat alone at the funeral legs crossed at his mother's grave. Natsuki stood behind him watching closely with reddened eyes. The next six months blurred to Damon like the fast-forward of a movie scene.
A blur packed with fresh bruises and a dead ring. When morning finally arrived, it hit him like a soft slap, dragging him right back into the daily grind. Outside, the traffic seemed permanent, while across the hall, his dad's door stayed locked.
The house felt suffocating.
Though he brushed his teeth, put on his black Southmere uniform, left his shirt untucked, and checked his reflection. He looked normal enough, maybe even a little detached. Mirrors don't lie after all.
He walked downstairs and his breakfast remained untouched. A faint and almost transparent image appeared in his mind. His mother smiling at him, there was no voice but her mouth moved saying:
"Come 'n eat."
The image blurred, and Damon sighed.
He walked to school with a casual posture but a heavy mind, one strap of his bag slung lazily over his shoulder and his hands were buried deep in his pockets.
The music club meeting dragged on as he sat at the drums, voices blurred into background noise while he tapped the drumsticks together lightly, along to the song playing in his earbuds.
By afternoon, he was in the gym helping Natsuki practice, by rebounding shots, and counting her scores.
Natsuki crouched lightly and sunk the ball right through the net.
"Two-fifty-six threes in thirty minutes," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, the closest thing to lightness he had managed in weeks. "Though one hundred and two touched the rim. New record."
Natsuki nodded, but then she paused, taking a ball from the net beside her. "Wait... what was the count again?"
"Two-fifty-six. I just said it."
Natsuki blinked, a flash of frustration and subtle fear. She crossed her eyes before masking it with a sharp grin. "Right. I was just testing you."
She was breathing hard, her phone buzzing on the bench. She lunged for it, her face going pale until she read the screen.
"Everything okay?" Damon asked.
"I'm fine," she replied too quickly as she shoved the phone back into her bag. "Just... checking if someone stayed put."
Damon frowned, "Stayed put? What's that mean?"
"Nothing. Erm... I was just checking if my brother's fine."
Damon his eyes lingered on her with a hint of worry, but he didn't press any further.
"How's your dad doing?" she asked almost dismissively as she picked up basketballs.
"He's drunk," he said flatly, bending down next to her.
Her gaze dropped to the raw marks on his arms and the irritation her face once held vanished.
"Has he been hitting you?" she asked.
"Yeah… but I'm fine."
"You're not fine." Natsuki stepped closer, looking straight at him as she grabbed his arm to get a better look. "Huh... You've been dull in class, eating lunch alone on the roof. At least that's what you've been telling me, 'cause you don't look like you eat well. I'm trying to help you."
"I said I'm fine," he said, pulling his arm away.
"No." She stepped closer with a trembling voice, "You don't get to give me attitude. It's been six months since the funeral, Damon. I've been there, even while losing someone too."
His breath caught. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly.
She swallowed hard and turned her face and scoffed lightly.
"What do I mean...? My dad's got Alzheimer's," she said, her voice breaking. "You'd have known if you'd been there… You barely even look at me sometimes. I'm your best friend."
"Natsuki, I'm so—"
"Don't bother." She swung her bag over her shoulder but turned to look at him over the same shoulder, "You'd rather bury it than talk about it. I'm not even talking to you about my problems. I'm trying to get you to talk to me, and you still won't."
She walked off. Damon stood alone in the gym, staring at the floor.
"She wants me to talk about my problems... I guess I worried her too much," he whispered, turning back to the basketballs.
By evening, he reached the Clover Note Memorabilia Auction early. The rows of chairs, the makeshift stage, and the faded posters gave the room a strange gravity.
He looked up at the bold name on a poster: 'The name's too long. And complicated.'
A man in his thirties with slick hair and a clean suit 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 silence, moving boxes and untangling cables side by side. After a while, he reached down to lift the last heavy crate, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Then—
CRASH
Above him, a massive stage speaker snapped loose, hurtling toward a guy crouching on the floor.
"Watch out!"
Damon didn't think. He just vaulted a stack of crates, kicking a loose cable out of the way as the room blurred to his eyes.
He intercepted the falling cabinet as his fingers locked unto the plastic casing a split second before impact. The very weight of a speaker larger than most, drove his knees toward the floorboards slightly, but he locked his joints and held it up.
The stunned man blinked, "Whoa, kid, you just saved my life. How'd you get here so fast?"
"I was… nearby."
The man chuckled, shaking his head. "You're stronger than you look. Are you on the track team of your school?"
"No... not really."
"Well, if you ever need something, come find me."
The rest of the auction passed in a blur of bright spotlights and auctioneers yelling out prices.
Damon barely noticed it; he just stared down at the ring on his finger with a racing mind.
'How did I move that fast? Where did that strength come from?'
By the time the crowd cleared, a full moon sat high above the alleyways. Damon looked up, a tightness building in his throat, "Mom loved the moon," he muttered.
He raised his phone for a photo, then froze. The realization that she wasn't there anymore made his face turn sad, slowly. He let out a breath and thought, 'I... I don't wanna go home. I stopped telling her how much I cared after a while, and now... I never will.'
He took the long way home with slow and slightly sluggish footsteps. Halfway there, he cut through an alley. By the time he was deep in the alley, he realised it was a bad idea.
Three guys blocked the exit, reeking of cheap booze and shouting over each other. "Hey, pretty boy," one slurred, stepping into the light. "Thought you could avoid us forever?"
"Wrong guy," Damon muttered, pivoting on his heel.
A hand clamped onto his collar, yanking him back. Then came the knuckles. Impacts cracked against his ribs, his jaw, his stomach while the thugs laughed. He hit the pavement, curling up as the boots kept coming, burying his face into his arms until the swinging stopped.
Then a ringing noise followed.
The ringing in his ears wasn't from the hits, but from the ring. It glowed again, brighter, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat but only Dmaon noticed the blue glow.
Then—
BOOM.
A flash erupted from the ring.
It shattered, scattering pieces in random directions. The ring shattered — but the power didn't fade with it. If anything… it felt clearer.
One screamed, clutching his eye from a piece of it. Damon had an instinctive feeling, as if the power didn't come from the ring. It came from somewhere deeper inside him, like something glorious had been unleashed.
"You bastard!" another yelled, swinging a bottle.
But Damon saw the blow coming but he dodged smoothly, faster than he could think. The blows kept coming but his body weaved left and right.
His footing slipped once with his shoulder clipping the wall, but his body corrected itself before he could even register the stumble.
He didn't understand it. But "I like it." He thought while he struck back.
The first punch cracked against the bone of Damon's victim. The second hit like a heavy hammer with large width, every strike landed harder than the last as the rush took over.
A man launched his fist. Damon grabbed it and returned the favour. His fist own fist connected — not with a crunch, but with a deep, heavy thud as Damon pressed the fist into the man's jaws.
The same man hit the wall. Another crashed through crates. The last tumbled into a dumpster.
Silence stretched again.
Damon stood there, panting, his hands trembling, his chest burning, alive in a way that terrified him. He stared at the shimmer fading from his hand.
"…What the hell is happening to me?"
Then he heard it.
The roar of engines and loud laughter broke the quiet, followed by the heavy scrape of boots on asphalt. A crowd spilled out from behind the crates and broken fences—easily nine or ten guys, drunk, aggressive, and looking for a fight.
"You're not leaving here alive, boyyy!!" A thug yelled. Many voices spoke of a similar context, but Damon only felt the rush in him.
'I'm... not afraid.' He thought.
He cracked his knuckles, eyes cold, his voice low and steady. His fear was gone, burned out,
replaced by something sharp and unfamiliar.
"Alright…" he muttered, stepping forward. "…let's end this."