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.
It was cold one second, hot the next, the hum swelling inside the silence of his room, steady and alive, vibrating against his bones as if it were more than metal.
He stumbled back, eyes wide, breath sharp, his chest rising and falling like he had just been struck.
His hand clawed at the ring, twisting, pulling, shaking, desperate 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.
The ring spun through the air, clinking across the table, rolling toward the open window with a sound that felt louder than it should have been.
Damon lunged, his body stretching forward, his breath catching as the ring teetered on the edge, the night wind cutting against his face, cold and sharp, reminding him of how close the drop below really was.
He caught it, just in time.
And then he froze, staring down at the abyss beneath him, the city lights blurred into streaks of indifferent colour. His voice came out low, bitter, almost broken.
"I'd be dead if I fell… just like you always wanted."
The thought scared him more than the fall itself, and that fear pulled him back from the edge. The ring didn't feel cold anymore. It didn't feel magical. It felt ordinary, almost mocking in its simplicity.
He slid it back onto his finger slowly, his breathing also slowing, his chest heavy, and the faint shimmer that had lit his room moments ago was gone, swallowed by darkness again.
Sleep never came. Only the memory of the ring's light, pulsing behind his eyelids.
Six Months Later...
Morning came too fast, dragging him into routine he no longer believed in. Traffic murmured outside his window, his father's door remained shut, and the silence of the house pressed against him like a weight.
He brushed his teeth, threw on his black Southmere High uniform with the tie loose and shirt untucked, and when he looked in the mirror he almost looked fine, almost looked cool. The mirror didn't lie. The ring glinted faintly, a reminder that nothing was normal.
Breakfast sat untouched. Hunger had left days ago. He walked to school with one strap of his bag slung lazily over his shoulder, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his posture casual but his mind heavy.
The music club meeting dragged as he sat at the drums, voices blurring into background noise while he tapped the sticks lightly, along to the song playing in his earpods.
By afternoon, he was in the gym helping Natsuki practice, rebounding shots and counting her scores.
"Two-fifty-six threes in thirty minutes. Though one hundred and two touched the rim and you didn't need to rebound. New record," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, the closest thing to lightness he had managed in weeks.
She didn't answer. She drank water, her silence sharper than words.
"How's your dad doing?" she asked softly, her voice carrying the weight of concern she didn't want to admit.
"He's drunk," Damon replied flatly, bending to grab his bag.
Her eyes caught the scars across his arms, and her voice cut through the air. "Has he been hitting you?"
"Yeah… but I'm fine."
"You're not fine." Her tone sharpened, her eyes flashing. "You've been dull in class, eating lunch alone on the roof. At least that's what you've been telling me, you don't look like you eat well. I'm trying to help you."
"I said I'm fine."
"No." She stepped closer, her voice trembling with anger and hurt. "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, tears welling up despite himself. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly.
She swallowed hard, her eyes darting away for a moment.
"What do I mean... My dad has Alzheimer's," she said, her voice breaking. "You'd have known if you'd been there… I'm your best friend."
"Natsuki, I'm so—"
"Don't bother." She swung her bag over her shoulder, her movements sharp, final. "You'd rather bury it than talk about it. I'm not even trying to talk to you, I'm trying to get you to talk to me."
She walked off, leaving him standing in the gym, staring at the floor, guilt pressing heavy against his chest like a weight he couldn't lift.
"She wants me to talk about my problems... I guess I worried her too much." Damon whispered to himself.
By evening, he reached the Clover Note Memorabilia Auction early. He still thought the name was too long, but the rows of chairs, the makeshift stage, and the faded posters gave the place a strange kind of gravity.
A man in his thirties, clean suit and slick hair, walked up. "You're the one Natsuki's mom talked about?"
"Yeah."
"Appreciate the help. Mind holding that ladder steady?"
Damon nodded, and they worked in quiet rhythm—moving boxes and fixing cables, the silence between them was oddly comfortable.
Then—
CRASH
The top speaker broke loose, falling toward one of the helpers who was squatting.
"Hey! HEY—Mr. Seijuru!"
Damon didn't think. He moved.
Feet pounding, weaving through crates and cables, the world blurring at the edges. He reached just in time and caught the edge of the speaker, barely, the weight nearly dragging him down with it.
His knees buckled slightly, and though he struggled a bit, he held.
The man blinked, stunned. "Woah, kid, you just saved my life. How'd you get here so fast?"
"I was… nearby."
The man chuckled, shaking his head. "You look skinny but strong. Are you on the track team of your school?"
"No... not really."
"Well, if you ever need something, come find me."
The event went on. Lights, voices, bidding and all sorts. However, Damon couldn't stop replaying it. He thought as he stared at the ring 'That speed. That strength. What just happened?'
When it finally ended, the moon was high, hanging heavy in the sky. Damon looked up, his voice soft, almost reverent. "Mom loves the moon."
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 miss you... Mom.'
He took the long way home, hands deep in his pockets, his footsteps slow, heavy. Halfway there, he cut through an alley, a shortcut.
By the time he was deep in the alley, he realised it was a bad idea.
Three guys waited—drunk and loud—their voices echoing off the walls.
"Yo, pretty boy," one slurred. "Thought you could skip out on us, huh?"
"Wrong guy," Damon said, trying to turn back.
One grabbed his collar.
Fists followed. To his gut, face, ribs, laughter bouncing off concrete.
There was a certain rhythm: pain, noise, pain—then silence broke that rhythm as he stayed still. The men looked as though they wished he wasn't dead.
Then a ringing noise followed.
The ringing in his ears wasn't from the hits. It was from the ring. It glowed again, brighter, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. They didn't notice it at all.
Then—
BOOM.
A flash erupted from the ring.
It shattered, scattering pieces in random directions. One screamed, clutching his eye. Damon had an instinctive feeling, as if the power didn't come from the ring. It came from somewhere deeper inside him, somewhere that had been waiting.
"You bastard!" another yelled, swinging a bottle.
But Damon was already moving, faster than he could think, his body weaving left and right, every dodge leaving a faint afterimage, like a glitch in time.
His footing slipped once, 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.
A punch that sounded like thunder. Another that landed like steel. Each hit was sharper, faster, heavier. Power roaring through his veins like fire.
One 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.
Engines. Laughter. Boots scraping asphalt. They spilled out from behind crates and broken fences. A whole group, drunk, angry, and looking for a fight. Nine, ten, maybe more.
"You're not leaving here alive boyyy!!" A thug yelled. Many voices spoke things of 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."