The hospital doors hissed open again, swallowing me back into the sterile glow. My arms ached from clutching the bundle of her clothes, but I held them tight—her sweater, her jeans. Proof she was still mine to fight for.
The young nurse was there, attending to a woman, her hands steady. She looked up as I approached, her eyes softening when she saw the bundle in my arms.
"You brought them," she said, reaching gently for the clothes. "She'll feel comfort when she wakes."
I nodded, throat tight. "She has to."
The woman muttered to herself, her voice cracked and trembling. "She was there… a monster was there."
The word snagged in my chest. Monster. I turned toward her, pulse quickening. The nurse leaned closer, lowering her voice. "She's shaken. She was attacked on her way home. It wasn't serious—I patched her up. We're waiting for the police to take her report."
But the woman's eyes burned with fear. "That blonde girl… she's in danger."
Blonde. Monster. Darla. Fury surged through the exhaustion, burning hot in my veins. "Where?" I rasped, stepping closer.
She blinked, startled by the fire in my voice. "The funeral home. Just down the street."
I shoved the clothes into the nurse's hands, trembling. "I'll be back."
"Wait—where are you—"
But I was already gone, tearing through the doors into the night.
The night air hit me like ice, but I didn't stop. My boots pounded the pavement, each step fueled by rage. The knife pressed cold against my waist, a promise waiting to be kept.
But as I ran, the memory clawed back—the monster in my room.
Those burning red eyes, unblinking, waiting.
The voice is whispering vengeance, curling around me like smoke.
Do you want revenge, Damien?
I clenched my jaw, breathing raggedly. The echo of its words tangled with Darla's laughter, mocking me from the shadows. My chest heaved, ribs screaming, but I forced my legs faster.
I had refused its power. I had turned away.
But the question still gnawed at me: could I kill her without it?
The funeral home loomed ahead, its windows dark, its doors heavy with shadow. My fists tightened, the knife biting against my side.
I slowed, chest heaving, ribs screaming, but my fists clenched tight.
This was it.
No more running.
No more begging.
Tonight, Darla dies.
The doors groaned as I shoved them open, the hinges shrieking into the night. The air inside was colder than the street, thick with smoke and roses gone sour.
The sound hit me first—fighting.
A cracking against bone, bodies slamming into walls, and voices sharp and desperate.
I staggered down the corridor, knife pressed tight against my waist, every step dragging me closer to the chaos. Shadows flickered with firelight, the heat licking at my skin.
I reached the furnace room.
The heavy iron door stood open, flames roaring inside, spilling heat and light across the chamber. Coffins lay splintered, their contents scattered.
Buffy fought in the center, her stake flashing as she drove it toward a snarling vampire. Giles shouted warnings; Willow and Xander clung to the edges, wide‑eyed, their faces pale in the furnace glow.
A blond man lay crumpled near the wall. His body was limp, unconscious, smoke curling around him as the battle raged on.
Buffy's eyes flicked toward him for a heartbeat, her face tight with fear, before she turned back to the vampire clawing for her throat.
The vampire's claws slashed wild, forcing Buffy back step by step. Her stake flashed once—then the creature's hand shot out, knocking it from her grip. The wood clattered across the stone floor, spinning out of reach.
Buffy gasped, barehanded now, her fists striking hard but desperate. The vampire caught her wrist, twisted, and drove her into the wall. The impact rattled the chamber, dust raining from the ceiling.
She fought back, knee driving into its ribs, but the monster only snarled, fangs gleaming in the furnace's glow. Its other hand closed around her throat, pinning her, dragging her closer to the roaring fire.
Giles shouted, his voice sharp with panic. Willow cried out, Xander frozen in terror.
Buffy clawed at its grip, her breath choking, her strength faltering. Her eyes flicked toward the blond man crumpled near the wall—then back to the vampire's face, rage burning through fear.
"Buffy!" Giles shouted again, but she was locked in the struggle, bare‑handed, fighting for her life.
The vampire's laughter was low and cruel, its claws tightening around her throat. "You're mine," it hissed, dragging her closer to the furnace door.
Buffy's eyes blazed, her body twisting, desperate to break free—but her strength was fading.
That was when I moved.
This was no longer just their fight. It was mine.
Knife in hand, ribs screaming, I lunged from the shadows. Rage burned through exhaustion, driving me forward.
The blade slashed across the vampire's side, tearing a howl from its throat. Its grip faltered, Buffy wrenching free, gasping for air.
She spun, eyes blazing, and with a burst of strength she drove the creature toward the furnace.
"Damien—now!"
I lunged, fury burning through exhaustion, shoulder slamming into the vampire's chest. Together we shoved, her strength and my rage colliding against the monster.
It shrieked, stumbling backward, its body slamming into the furnace. Flames roared as it toppled inside, convulsing, the fire swallowing its scream.
Ash scattered in the glow, the chamber falling silent save for the roar of the furnace.
Buffy's eyes flicked to me, sweat streaking her face. "You shouldn't have been here."
I clenched the knife tighter, my voice raw. "It isn't just your fight anymore."
Her gaze softened, though her jaw stayed firm. "You almost got yourself killed."
I smirked bitterly, blood still hot in my mouth. "You could just say thanks."
For a moment, her expression faltered—fear, anger, and something like respect flickering across her face.
"I was handling it," she admitted quietly, though her voice wavered. "You just came in at the last moment and shoved. That's it."
I opened my mouth to answer, but her eyes snapped past me.
"Oh God—" Buffy's voice broke as she rushed to the blond man, knees hitting the stone floor as she pressed her hands against his chest. "He's still breathing. Giles!"
Giles hurried over, his voice taut. "Careful, Buffy. Smoke inhalation—he needs air."
Willow and Xander scrambled closer, wide‑eyed, their fear shifting to frantic concern.
I stood rooted, the knife trembling in my grip, the furnace's roar echoing behind me. My ribs screamed, but all I could think at that moment was one truth: Darla was not here.
Buffy brushed soot from the blond man's cheek, her voice breaking. "Owen. Please, stay with me."
The chamber felt smaller, the fire pressing in, the silence between her words louder than the flames.
I clenched the knife tighter, the weight of my vow burning in my chest. Darla's laughter still lingered in my skull, mocking, cruel.
My voice cut through the chaos, low and sharp. "Where is she?"
Buffy's head snapped up, startled. "Who?"
"Darla," I rasped, the name burning in my throat. "Where is she?"
Confusion flickered across their faces. Giles frowned, adjusting his glasses. "We don't know anyone by that name."
Willow shook her head, wide‑eyed. "Darla? Who's Darla?"
Xander muttered, his voice tight. "Sounds like trouble, but we've never heard of her."
My chest tightened, fury twisting inside me. "She's the one who almost took everything from me. She's the one I want."
Buffy's eyes locked on mine, steady but weary. "If she's a vampire, we'll find her. But right now—"
Her words cut off as Owen groaned, his body shifting against the stone. Smoke curled from his clothes as he stirred, coughing weakly. Buffy's face lit with relief.
Buffy's fight wasn't over.
And neither was mine.