Sunlight stabbed through the blinds, too bright, too ordinary. I blinked awake, heart pounding, the memory of blood and mandibles still clinging to me.
Then I saw the clock. Late. Way past when I should've been at school.
I sat up fast. Grabbing my jeans and my jacket, then a thought hit me: Mom should've been yelling by now, but the house was silent.
I stumbled into the hallway, bare feet against the cool floorboards. No sound of dishes clattering, no smell of breakfast, no hum of her radio. Just emptiness.
"Mom?" My voice cracked, too loud in the quiet.
No answer.
Then I stepped into the kitchen.
The world stopped.
Mom lay sprawled across the tiles, her body twisted, her face pale. A pool of blood spread beneath her, dark and glistening, seeping into the cracks of the floor.
My breath caught, my chest tightening until I thought it might split.
A man stood over her, his back to me, shoulders rigid. He didn't move, didn't speak. He just stood there, with a bloody knife in his hand, framed in the morning light, like he belonged to the shadows.
"Mom…" The word tore out of me, broken, useless.
The man's head moved slightly, as if he'd heard. But he didn't turn. Not yet.
I gripped the doorframe, nails digging into the wood, every nerve screaming. The night's vow echoed in my skull—I want a gang of my own.
But right now, I was alone.
The man turned.
My breath caught as his face came into view—my face. His eyes glowed red, burning like embers in the dark.
He smiled, thin and sharp, and his voice slithered into me like smoke.
"You can't run from what you are, Damien."
The words froze me in place. My chest tightened, my throat locked. I wanted to scream, but no sound came.
Behind him, Mom's body twitched. Her eyes fluttered open, lips parting as if to speak—
"Damien!"
I jolted upright, gasping. My sheets tangled around me, sweat soaking my skin. Mom stood at my bedside, her hand on my shoulder, her face tight with worry.
"You're going to be late for school," she said, her voice sharp, grounding me in the ordinary.
The kitchen, the blood, the red‑eyed double—it was gone. Just a dream.
I sat there, chest heaving, sweat clinging to my skin. Mom's voice had pulled me out of the nightmare, but the echo of it—the red eyes, the words—still pressed against my ribs. You can't run from what you are.
She was already moving, brisk and sharp, telling me to get dressed, to hurry. Her voice was ordinary, grounding, but every syllable felt like it came from far away.
I dragged myself into the bathroom. The mirror caught me, pale and hollow-eyed. For a second, I swore the reflection flickered—eyes glowing red—before it was just me again. I splashed water on my face, cold and biting, but it didn't wash away the dread.
A box of Donuts was on the table, but I couldn't eat. The smell turned my stomach. Mom moved around the kitchen, humming under her breath, but I kept staring at her hands, half-expecting them to twitch like they had in the nightmare.
The clock ticked louder than it should have. Every second felt like a countdown.
I shoved books into my bag, my fingers trembling. Mom called from the doorway, sharp but distracted, reminding me not to be late again. I nodded, but the words barely reached me.
As I stepped outside, the sunlight felt wrong—too bright, too ordinary. My chest tightened, the dream clinging like a shadow.
And beneath it all, the thought pulsed, steady and fierce: I need a gang of my own.
Because if nightmares could bleed into daylight, if monsters could wear human faces, then I couldn't trust the ordinary to protect me. I needed people who would stand with me, fight with me, and belong to me.
Every step toward school felt heavier, the sunlight too sharp, the laughter of other kids too loud. My chest tightened with each sound, each face that blurred past me.
You can't run from what you are. The words echoed, twisting inside me.
I turned a corner. There he stands. Xander Harris blinked at me, pale and shaken. His eyes widened when he saw me.
"Damien?" His voice cracked, still raw from last night. "You okay, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I swallowed, my throat dry. "Maybe I did."
Xander gave a weak grin. "Yeah, well… welcome to Sunnydale. Ghosts, bugs, monsters—it's kind of our thing."
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
Xander's grin faltered, but he nodded. "Well, I heard you live near me, so I thought, why not go to school together?"
I glanced at him, noticing the way his hands shook as he adjusted his backpack strap. "You're still rattled," I said quietly.
"Rattled?" He gave a short laugh, too sharp. "Try traumatized. I mean, giant praying mantis lady? That's not exactly something you walk off with a juice box."
I smirked. "You're making jokes about it."
"That's how I cope," Xander said, shrugging. "If I stop joking, I start screaming. And screaming in the middle of the hallway doesn't do wonders for your social life."
Xander's grin softened, his voice lowering. "You didn't freeze. You survived. That's more than the blond kid got."
The words hit hard, but they carried truth.
We walked in silence for a moment, the school looming closer. Kids streamed past us, oblivious, laughing, alive.
Xander nudged me with his elbow, his grin returning, crooked but real. "Hey. You're not alone in this. You've got the Scooby Gang. You're in now, that is, if you accept, of course."
I looked at him, the weight of the dream still pressing against me, but something else stirring beneath it. Belonging.
Still, the thought pulsed beneath it all, fierce and unyielding: I'm a burden; I need to make something of my own.
The school loomed ahead, its brick walls too ordinary for the weight pressing on my chest. Kids streamed past us, laughing, shouting, and alive—like nothing had happened last night.
Xander walked beside me, his grin crooked but fading as we crossed the threshold. His voice dropped low, almost conspiratorial. "Come on. There's something I need to show you."
I frowned. "Where are we going?"
"The library," he said, like it was obvious. "It's… kind of our headquarters."
We pushed through the double doors.
The library smelled of old paper and dust, sunlight slanting across rows of books. It should've felt safe, but instead it felt like a place where secrets lived.
At the center table stood Giles, already stacking books into neat piles. He looked up, adjusting his glasses, his gaze sharp and assessing.
"Ah. Damien." His voice was calm, but it carried weight. "Xander thought it best to bring you here."
Xander nudged me with his elbow, whispering, "Relax. This is where the magic happens. Literally."
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. The library wasn't just a room full of books—it was the heart of something bigger. And standing there, with Giles' eyes on me and Xander at my side, I felt the fragile thread of belonging tighten.
But beneath it, the thought burned stronger than ever: I need my own gang. My own place. My own power.
Giles folded his hands, his tone deliberate. "Buffy is the Slayer. One girl in all the world, chosen to stand against vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness. She is gifted with strength, speed, and resilience beyond that of ordinary humans."
"And I," Giles continued, "am her Watcher. My duty is to guide her, train her, and provide knowledge and strategy. Where she is the sword, I am the shield of wisdom."
Xander leaned closer, whispering, "Basically, he's the guy with all the books."
Giles shot him a look, then pressed on. "Sunnydale itself sits atop a Hellmouth—a focal point of mystical energy. It attracts evil and magnifies it. Vampires, demons, creatures like Miss French… they are drawn here. That is why Buffy is here. Why we are here."
The word Hellmouth lodged in my chest, heavy and cold. A place that pulled monsters like a magnet. And I was living on top of it.
Giles' eyes narrowed, studying me. "You've seen enough to know this is real. You are not powerless, Damien. But you must decide where you stand."
Xander was trying to lighten the mood. "Don't worry. We've got pizza nights too. It's not all doom and gloom."
But the words barely reached me. The Slayer, the Watcher, the Hellmouth—it was bigger than anything I'd imagined.
Giles's words still hung in the air—the Slayer, the Watcher, the Hellmouth. My chest tightened, the dream's echo pressing harder.
The doors creaked open. Buffy strode in, her presence sharp and steady, sunlight catching in her hair. Willow followed close behind, clutching her books like armor, her eyes darting nervously until they landed on me.
Buffy dropped her bag on the table, her tone brisk. "So, Giles gave you the crash course?"
I nodded, throat dry. "Slayer. Watcher. Hellmouth." The words felt heavy in my mouth.
Buffy's gaze softened, but her voice stayed firm. "It's a lot. But it's real. And it's dangerous. You saw that last night."
Willow stepped closer, her smile small but kind. "It's scary, I know. But… you're not alone anymore. We fight together."
Her words should've been comforting, but they twisted inside me. Not alone. Yet the dream's voice still hissed: You can't run from what you are.
Buffy leaned against the table, arms crossed, her eyes locked on mine. "Survival isn't enough here. You have to decide if you're in this fight."
I looked at them—Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Giles—the Scooby Gang. Their voices pressed against the silence in my chest, fragile threads of belonging.
But beneath it all, the thought pulsed, fierce and unyielding: I'm a burden; I need to make something of my own.
Buffy's gaze stayed steady, Willow's kindness lingered, Xander's crooked grin tried to hold the weight. Giles's words pressed like stone.
I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Thank you. All of you. For helping me last night. But… no. I don't want to join you."
The silence that followed was sharp and heavy.
Buffy's jaw tightened, but she didn't argue. Willow's eyes dropped, her smile fading. Xander shifted awkwardly, his humor gone. Giles only adjusted his glasses, his voice calm but edged. "Then you must walk your own path, Damien. But know this—the Hellmouth will not wait for you to choose."
The weight of their stares pressed against me, belonging offered but rejected. Inside, the thought pulsed, fierce and unyielding: I'm a burden; I need to make something of my own.
And then—
BRRRRING!
The school bell split the silence, shrill and ordinary, calling everyone to class.