THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS VIOLENCE THAT MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR SOME READERS.
The alleyway's silence had shattered.
A metallic clanking blended with the far-off roar of engines as it echoed sharply against the brick walls. For Damon, standing amidst the sudden noise, the remaining stillness felt suffocatingly heavy.
Over a dozen figures stepped out of the alley, closing in on him. The boots of thugs marched against the asphalt, and weapons scraped the walls over a loud hum of voices.
"You're finished, boy," snarled the man he had launched into the overflowing dumpster moments before, his voice filled with an urge for ugly payback.
Damon didn't wait for the crowd to reach him. He turned and sprinted toward an abandoned factory. He knew they would chase him, tracking his fear through the dark.
A wild instinct snapped deep down inside Damon. Without a single word, his body began to move with a smooth, effortless control he had never felt before.
A rusted pipe sliced through the air toward his skull. Yet his reflexes ducked the swing; he clamped his hand around the thugs wrist mid-motion and hurled him hard against a wall. Another thug charged forward recklessly. He met a single, devastatingly precise kick to the head that turned his lights off on impact.
With every strike Damon landed, the effort seemed to lessen.
His muscles seemed to intuitively find the absolute path of least resistance, operating entirely on pure instinct rather than conscious thought. He ducked, spun, elbowed, and countered, transforming a desperate struggle for survival into a frightening domination.
He effortlessly parried their wild, clumsy assaults, returning each one with a sharper, cleaner, and devastatingly precise counter.
Suddenly, a biker revved his engine, the mechanical scream cut through the shouts of the surrounding gang.
Damon glanced over his shoulder. He looked strangely calm despite the chaos around him.
Suddenly, he burst into a full sprint straight toward the noise. The world blurred as he charged forward. He jumped and slammed his feet into the rider's chest, kicking him clean off the bike.
In a single, impossibly graceful motion, Damon dropped perfectly into the empty seat without a moment of hesitation. He twisted the throttle while leaning over the handlebars, while the whistling breeze whipped across his face as the bike surged forward.
Two bullets flew past his head in quick succession. He jerked the motorcycle sideways to dodge and lifted the front wheel, forcing the gunfire to miss through the empty space below him.
A massive man with shoulders like concrete blocks stepped into his path. Roaring with rage, the giant swung a thick wooden plank right at him.
Damon dropped low, executing a flawless backflip off the accelerating seat just before the point of impact. As he spun mid-air, he caught the swinging plank and redirected its heavy momentum toward the man.
The giant managed to catch the wood but lost his footing, stumbling backward directly into the path of the driverless motorcycle. The sharp wooden splinter impaled the bike, sending the entire machine crashing violently into the exterior wall of an adjacent building—Obscuron Tower. For one terrifying fraction of a second, the world hung in total suspension.
Then — BOOM.
The air itself compressed into a solid wall, striking Damon square in the chest as a massive fireball erupted outward. A blinding explosion of crimson and gold sent his body flying backward like a discarded feather. Searing heat consumed everything.
The pavement rushed up to meet him hard, agony radiating through his ribs before the entire world plunged into pitch blackness.
When his eyes finally flickered open, muffled sirens wailed in the distance against the sharp crackle of burning debris. A high-pitched, agonizing wiiiiiiiiiiiiiir filled his ears, completely drowning out the shouting police officers and the roar of the nearby fire.
Pure instinct—the strange, heightened awareness he had stumbled into—was his only remaining tool.
Dragging himself onto his side while coughing up thick smoke, he took in the orange-washed alleyway. It was a chaotic wreckage of twisted metal, shattered glass, and pools of burning oil.
The approaching sirens meant authority was closing in fast. Drawing one agonizingly deep breath, he cast a final look at the devastation and bolted. His speed was entirely unnatural for his build, a dead sprint that seemed to gather incredible velocity with every stride.
By the time he finally paused to look back, the distant orange glow was nothing more than a hazy blur against the dark city skyline.
"What… have I done?" he whispered, his voice trembling, the smell of ozone and burnt metal clinging to his clothes. His hands shook. He didn't know if it was from the fight… or from himself.
He kept running until his lungs burned like fire and the ambient city lights smeared into abstract lines of vibrant color. Ahead, he spotted the very same priest from before. The man was smiling. This time, however, he deliberately lowered his spectacles, forcing Damon to look directly into his eyes. The gaze conveyed everything: I saw everything… and I'm not telling.
Damon didn't pause to analyze it. He simply kept running toward home... No. The house.
His father sat slumped over the living room armchair, a half-emptied bottle catching the faint glint of the room's light.
"You're late," his father slurred as Damon stepped inside.
"I—"
The slap came with the speed of old habit, but Damon's body moved with the new, alien reflex. He caught it. For a split second, neither of them moved. His fingers locked tightly around his father's wrist, freezing the swinging blow dead in its tracks and leaving both of them paralyzed in absolute shock.
"So you think you're grown now…" his father mumbled calmly, pulling his arm back before stumbling, missing the chair, and falling into unconsciousness.
Damon turned toward the stairs and hesitated for a long moment. Then, crouching low, he propelled himself upward, clearing the entire flight of stairs in a single, gravity-defying bound. He stood at the top, suspended between intense fear and total shock, a faint, involuntary smile starting to twitch at the corner of his lips. But as he glanced down at his open palms, he noticed the dark streaks of grease and soot carried from the alleyway. The brief smile vanished instantly. His hands weren't merely fast; they were physically stained.
"What's happening to me?"
Saturday morning arrived, and the city streets were already bustling with weekend activity. Drawn by a grim sense of curiosity, Damon jogged past a growing crowd gathered around the brightly taped-off crime scene. News crews, flashing cameras, and police officers moved actively through the charred wreckage.
"…Twelve dead, three survivors," a reporter was saying into a microphone. "Police have not confirmed identities; however, based on clothing residue, those are very likely thugs. What they have confirmed, however, is that it was caused by an explosion in the old district last night. The three survivors describe a boy in his late teens—"
A sickening, heavy knot instantly tied itself in Damon's stomach.
Suddenly, a man dressed in a white lab coat forced his way through the gathering crowd, his expression twisted in a state of furious panic. "You idiots! I couldn't care less about the survivors, or the dead! Do you have any idea what you've destroyed?!"
"Sir, calm down—" an officer started.
"Calm down? That was over nine billion yen! Nine billion yen! Gone!" the man screamed.
"Sir, there were people inside—" an officer started.
"People can be replaced! That prototype was a decade of work! MY HARD WORK!"
A sudden, icy shiver ran down Damon's spine. To the public, he was a lethal vigilante who had eliminated a gang of thugs. To the wealthy and powerful, he was nothing more than an expensive budget deficit.
Well, they did attack me first. But still, what the heck happened last night? Damon wondered, staring at his fist.
Nearby, a forensic investigator spoke in hushed tones, validating his worst fears: "Initial reports suggest the blast started when a motorcycle hit the building. Though a simple motorbike shouldn't have caused destruction on this scale. Forensics suggest a chain reaction followed, which caused the prototype… to vaporize. Honestly, we're lucky it was only a partial detonation of Obscuron."
The panicked scientist kicked a shattered shipping crate in pure frustration. Feeling suddenly far too exposed in the open crowd, Damon took a cautious step backward.
"Hey, kid—scram," the cop ordered.
Damon didn't wait to be told twice, taking off with that same impossible, blinding speed that completely defied his ordinary appearance.
"Yo!"
Damon skidded to a halt, slowing his frantic pace. "Daiki?" he asked, genuinely surprised.
Daiki offered his signature, easygoing grin. He possessed deep amber skin and a perfectly styled, thick Afro, radiating a level of confidence that suggested he had never really been away.
"Dude, I thought you were in the States," Damon said with a smile on his face.
The two young men stepped forward and embraced. The warmth of the hug spoke volumes of years filled with missed memories, but... as best friends, they were happy and caught up quickly.
"Was," Daiki said, adjusting his bag. "My dad works with the guys who built that generator that blew up. He had to fly back and rebuild it, and he made mom and I follow him."
Damon froze, the breath catching in his throat. "…That generator?"
"Yeah. Sucks, huh?" Daiki shrugged.
"Yeah…" Damon managed, his voice barely a whisper.
Daiki went quiet when Damon explained the situation with his mother and father. "Damn. I'm sorry, man."
"Yeah."
Daiki grinned again, injecting levity back into the moment. "You look good, though. You even got taller." They promised to meet later, exchanged a quick fist bump, and split paths while waving.
Later that day, Damon found himself at Natsuki's house. Her mother's smile was wide and welcoming. She had blonde hair like her daughter but crimson‑tinted eyes.
"Oh. Damon, how are you?" she asked, her voice still hesitant for the boy in grief.
"I'm fine, ma'am," he answered respectfully.
"Natsuki! A handsome boy's here for you!" Her mother called out teasingly.
"Tell Souta I'm not interested!" Natsuki called from upstairs.
"It's Damon!" The mother teased.
Damon heard footsteps and stairs creaking, then she appeared. Her hair was tied back, and she was dressed casually, with the same sharp, assessing eyes. She stopped, scanning him. He looked different. Sharper, healthier. No shadows under his eyes.
"You look different," she stated.
"Less zombie-ish?"
"Barely," she countered with a light scoff.
They walked to the park, Damon kicking rocks nervously. "About the other day," he began. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," she said, her voice dry. "Kinda used to your crappy apologies."
He chuckled, the sound rough and real. "There's no need to be mean."
"No need to be a baby either," she shot back. Though a smile twitched at her lips.
He pointed at the basketball court. "Bet I can beat the best baller at Southmere."
"You don't even play basketball," she said, raising an eyebrow in suspicion.
A small, reckless smirk spread across his face as he passed her the ball. "Watch and learn, tiger."
"Ohhh, okay. Don't cry, baby."
"Fine then. First to twenty."
"You're on," she said, a determined edge in her voice.
He wasn't okay. But pretending to be okay was easier than thinking about the hospital or thinking about his mother in general.
The game started light and playful, then turned sharp and serious. She dribbled, crossed, and scored with practiced ease. He stole, dodged, and leaped with that alien, startling speed, scoring back instantly.
When he jumped, his shirt lifted slightly, and Natsuki's eyes caught on his abdomen, freezing for a heartbeat. Her gaze lingered for a fraction longer than she intended.
Damon… has abs? she whispered under her breath, disbelief warring with fascination. He landed, spinning the ball.
"Since when do you have abs?" she asked, louder now.
"Surprised?" he asked, mocking her, throwing her rhythm off balance.
Damon vaulted up again, fingers brushing the rim before he dropped lightly back to the court.
What's going on here? Six months ago, he could barely jump. Now he's dunking effortlessly. And that speed... He's fast. Too fast.
Natsuki blitzed—long shots, clean dunks, even a spin‑dunk that made him whistle.
Later on…
"Twenty-six to eighteen," he said easily. "Guess I win."
She sat down, catching her breath, staring at him. "You've been hiding that from me, D?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
They sat side‑by‑side, and he explained everything. For a moment, he forgot the weight on his chest. Just a moment—but it felt like breathing.
"So you're telling me, your dad's ring gave you abs? And you destroyed Dr. Maniac's generator? And a couple of thugs are dead... because of you?" she asked, her disbelief barely contained.
"I know it's hard to bel—"
"Hard is an understatement." She stood up, planting herself directly in front of him, her voice low and challenging, but her eyes were searching him. "Damon… do you hear yourself? You expect me to believe all that just because you said it? Technically, I guess I normally would. But this sounds so... fake."
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His eyes dipped for a second in disappointment. Then, he noticed the way her shorts hugged her legs, and he snapped his eyes away, heat rising in his face.
"Then prove it," she whispered. "I wanna believe you, and at the same time I don't want to. But you've gotta prove what you're saying either way."
He sighed, and his gaze remained downward. Her hand didn't go to his chin immediately. It hovered first beside her pocket. Then she gently lifted her palm, warming under his jaw as she guided his face up to meet her eyes.
"Look at me, will ya," she commanded.
For a moment, in Damon's mind, the air completely froze. Wha— How many times have I told her not to do that? The way I'm looking at her now... will she notice? he thought. A hint of startled surprise and somewhat hope filled his eyes. But he didn't shift her hand.
Her gaze sharpened, a smirk playing on her lips. "How am I supposed to believe that a ring gave you powers unless you show it to me? I mean, you're faster, and you look healthier too. If you're really as strong as you say you are… prove it. Bleep test. Now."
He quickly regained his senses and groaned calmly, "You're annoying."
"Just run, bro. Like it's your last."
He smirked, stretched, and took off, a small cloud of dust rising behind him. She watched, stopwatch in hand, pretending not to be impressed.
Calling him bro... It's been feeling odd for a long while, Natsuki thought. I should... no. I shouldn't. Who knows how he feels?
BEEP.
Level one. Damon's feet hit the pavement with rhythmic precision.
BEEP.
Level five. He wasn't even breathing hard. But as the frequency increased, the sound began to change in his ears. The digital chirp of the stopwatch lost its flat, electronic tone. It became sharper. Steadier.
BEEP... BEEP... BEEP...
Suddenly, he wasn't in the park anymore. He was back in that room. The smell of bleach and antiseptics flooded his nose, drowning out the scent of the air. He could hear the squeak of the nurse's slippers. He could see his mother's hollow, blue eyes.
I regret ever having you. Her words echoed.
BEEP.
He shifted gears. His legs moved like pistons, his heart hammering against his ribs in time with the noise. He wasn't running toward the finish line; he was running away from that hospital bed. Every time the timer sounded, it felt like a needle jumping on a monitor.
You ruined everything.
BEEP.
He ran faster. The world blurred. He wanted the sound to stop. He wanted to go so fast that time itself would break, just so he wouldn't have to hear that steady, merciless rhythm of her dying.
Natsuki noticed something was wrong, judging from his expression. The silence that followed was deafening.
When he finally hit the final level, he didn't just stop—he skidded, his breath heaving, his chest burning. He noticed her concern and gave an assuring sign. She gave a small, proud smile, though maybe a little scared of what she had unleashed.
When Natsuki turned away, Damon sighed. Nice one, mom.
"How'd I do?" he asked as they both sat down.
"You impressed me, but I've seen better," Natsuki said. Though her thoughts differed entirely.
No. I haven't seen better. I have no idea what I just saw. How could Damon, the person whom I could beat in a race on any day... How did he suddenly beat a world record? He didn't just beat it; it's utterly outclassed. I didn't believe him at first, but... is it really possible?
Their eyes met again, closer now. Her breath hitched lightly as she looked into Damon's blue eyes; his face had changed slightly in her own purple eyes. They were much closer as she tilted her head up to meet his eyes. He did the opposite. Their breaths came shorter now, the silence between them warm and charged.
But neither moved. Just the wind, just the unspoken thing—waiting, patient, for what would come next. Damon didn't move. He didn't know what came next… but for the first time in a long time, he wasn't afraid of it.