The school bell still echoed in my skull as I slipped out the side doors, cutting away from the Scooby Gang before they could catch me. I can't face them after what I said. I rejected their kindness. I don't know how they took it, and frankly, I don't care. For now I need to get stronger if I want to protect my life and my mother; I can't wait for Buffy to help every time.
I kept walking, faster, until the noise thinned into ordinary street sounds. By the time I reached the porch, the swing creaked in the breeze, slow and steady, The car was parked outside..
I pushed the door open.
Silence.
The house was too clean again—floors gleaming, counters polished, everything staged like a showroom. No hum of the radio, no clatter of dishes, no voice calling my name.
"Mom?"
No answer.
The kitchen was empty. The clock ticked louder than it should have, each second pressing against my chest.
A scrap of paper clung to the refrigerator under a magnet. I pulled it free, reading the neat handwriting:
I went shopping out of town. The prices in Sunnydale are high. don't worry; the donut box is in the fridge if you're hungry. Be back at 5.
p;s The car's wheel has a hole, so I took the bus.
I looked at the clock. 3:00.
Two hours alone. Two hours to act.
I folded the note back under the magnet, my fingers lingering on the paper. The dream's echo hissed in my skull—her body sprawled across the tiles, the red-eyed double smiling with my face. I clenched my jaw, forcing the image away.
Not now.
I needed something real. Something sharp. Something that could cut through nightmares and monsters alike.
The library flashed in my mind—the steel locker I'd glimpsed, rows of weapons gleaming under dust and fluorescent light. Stakes, blades, crossbows. Tools of survival. Buffy had her arsenal. If I was going to stand on my own, I needed mine.
I moved down the hallway, each step echoing against the polished floorboards. Mom's bedroom door was open, the bed neatly made, untouched. The air smelled faintly of lavender, her perfume lingering like a ghost.
I crossed to her dresser, pulling open the top drawer. Neat stacks of folded clothes, a jewelry box, and beneath it, an envelope. My fingers trembled as I lifted it.
Cash.
I counted quickly, heart pounding. Two hundred dollars. I hope this is enough.
I shoved the bills into my jacket pocket; Mom trusted me. But trust doesn't stop monsters. Trust can't protect her.
I closed the drawer, the lavender scent clinging to my hands. The silence felt heavier now, like the house knew what I'd done.
Two hours. Enough time to get to town. Enough time to buy a weapon.
I stepped back into the hallway, the clock ticking louder than it should have. My chest burned with the thought pulsing steady and fierce: I need a gang of my own. I need power of my own.
And tonight, it would start with a weapon.
I stepped back into the sunlight, too bright, too ordinary, but this time I carried purpose with me.
The town felt different when you were hunting for something sharp. Every storefront blurred past—cafés, bookstores, hardware shops—until one sign snagged my eye: Meyer Sport & Tackle.
The windows were cluttered with fishing rods, hunting knives, and crossbows. Ordinary tools, but to me, they gleamed like survival.
I pushed the door open.
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped inside. The air smelled of oil, leather, and steel. Fishing rods leaned against the front window, and baseball bats were stacked in neat rows, but deeper in the shop the gleam of knives and crossbows caught my eye.
I moved past the cluttered displays. The counter sat tucked away at the back, half-shadowed, like the heart of the store was meant to be hidden.
Behind it stood a girl. Ten, maybe eleven. Her hoodie sleeves swallowed her hands, but her posture was steady, her gaze sharp. She didn't flinch when she saw me.
"Are you here for fishing gear?" she said, her voice calm, almost bored.
"No. I need something stronger." I said
"What, like ice-skating boots?" she chuckled.
"Listening, little girl, I don't know what a girl your age is doing in here. Frankly, I don't have time for jokes today."
She tilted her head, studying me. "Alright, Rambo, what do you need?"
I stepped closer, the silence pressing in. "I need a weapon."
Her lips curved, not quite a smile. "Most kids your age come in for baseball bats. Not steel."
I clenched my jaw. "I'm not most kids."
The words hung between us, sharp as the knives on the wall.
She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "What kind?"
Her lips curved, not quite a smile. "Most kids your age come in for baseball bats. Not steel."
I clenched my jaw. "I'm not most kids."
The words hung between us, sharp as the knives on the wall.
She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "What kind?"
Something sharp. Something that lasts. "A sword"
A smirk tugging at her mouth. "Alright, what do you think of this one?" She pulled a wooden box across the counter, revealing a sword nestled inside.
It looked durable and sharp. "Yes, that's the one," I said quickly, though I didn't know a thing about weapons.
"Alright," she said, almost casual. "I'll wrap it for you."
"Wait," I blurted. "How much is it?"
The number hit me like a punch. Seven hundred. My hand brushed the pocket of my jacket, where the stolen bills weighed heavy. "I… don't have that much."
The girl froze, her smirk vanishing. She leaned back, arms crossing, eyes narrowing. "Seriously? making me pull out the good stuff, and you don't even have the cash?"
Her voice sharpened, cutting through the quiet of the shop. "Do you know how much trouble I'd be in if my dad saw me showing you this? And you're just wasting my time?"
My chest tightened. The lavender scent from Mom's room clung to me, accusing. I'd stolen from her, convinced myself it was for survival, and now I couldn't even buy the weapon.
"I'm sorry," I muttered.
She rolled her eyes, snatching the box back with a sharp motion. "Yeah, well, sorry doesn't pay the rent. Next time, don't play soldier unless you've got the cash."
Her words stung, sharper than the blade I couldn't afford. The dream's echo hissed in my skull—you can't run from what you are.
I swallowed hard, guilt pressing against my ribs. "I've only got two hundred. Can I get something sharp with that?"
Her posture softened, just a little. She sighed, muttering, "Fine. For that kind of money… I've got something in the back."
She disappeared through a door behind the counter. The silence pressed in, heavy. Look at me, stealing from my own mother just to. beg for scraps of steel.
When she returned, she carried a smaller box, setting it down with care. She flipped it open, and inside lay a knife. Its blade shimmered faintly, a deep crimson hue, as if forged from blood and fire.
"This," she said, her voice quieter now, "is not a sword, but it's sharp. Durable. And it's yours for two hundred."
I stared at it, my breath caught. My fingers trembled as I reached out, lifting the knife from the box. It was heavier than I expected, solid, and real. The weight pressed against me—not just steel, but guilt, resolve, and something darker.
I handed her the money, my voice low. "Thank you."
She slid the bills into the register, her sharpness tempered now by reluctant respect.
I slipped the knife into my jacket, the crimson steel hidden but burning against my ribs. As I turned toward the door, the bell jingled above me, sunlight spilling in.
Not enough for a sword. But enough to start.
The girl slipped through the door behind the counter, the hinges creaking as it swung shut.
The backroom smelled of oil and sawdust, dim light filtering through a single hanging bulb. An old man sat at a workbench cluttered with tools and half‑finished repairs. A heavy presence filled the space—broad shoulders, scarred hands, and a patch covering his left eye.
He didn't look up right away, just kept polishing the barrel of a hunting rifle. "Did he leave?"
The girl hesitated, shifting the box in her hands. "Yes."
He set the rifle down, turning toward her. The patch made his gaze sharper, more severe. "Good, now it's in his hand."
She bit her lip, then lifted the smaller box she'd pulled from the shelf. Why give him that weapon? He does not deserve…"
The man's brow furrowed, the single eye narrowing. "Amber"
She dropped her gaze to the ground. "Sorry, Daddy, he just looked."
Silence stretched, heavy as the weapons lining the walls. Then the father sighed, "Desperate kids and steel mix well, plus it's their order; we are merely the messengers."
The girl nodded, clutching the box tighter. "i understand."