THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS VIOLENCE THAT MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR SOME READERS.
The alley was no longer quiet.
A combination of clanking metal and distant engine roars echoed off the bricks making the stilness around Damon feel unnaturally heavy as he stood there. His knuckles were bruised and his body rigid, still catching his breath from the initial fight.
Ten shadows, maybe more, filed in from the mouth of the alley, dragging the suffocating night down with them. Boots scraped asphalt. Metal clinked. Too many voices to count.
"You're finished, boy," snarled the man he had launched into the overflowing dumpster moments before, his voice thick with a promise of ugly payback.
Damon didn't wait for the attack. He fled the sudden mass of bodies, heading toward the structure of an abandoned factory, knowing they would follow his scent of blood and fear into the dark.
Something deep and primal snapped awake inside him. And though he didn't speak or blink, his body moved with an effortless grace he couldn't recall ever possessing.
The first pipe swung at his head, a rusted blur of force, yet his reflexes were faster than sight; he sidestepped the blow, caught the attacker's wrist mid-swing, and slammed him into the damp, broken wall.
The second thug came running, bare-handed and reckless, meeting a single, sharp kick to the head that snuffed his lights out instantly.
Each strike Damon delivered felt easier, sharper, as if his muscles already knew the perfect path of least resistance, moving on instinct rather than thought.
He ducked, spun, elbowed, and punched, no longer fighting to survive but dominating with a frightening, calculated rhythm.
A biker suddenly roared his engine, the sound splitting the air behind the shouting men.
Damon turned his head slightly, his eyes unnervingly calm in the chaos, before sprinting at full, inhuman speed toward the sound.
The world blurred as his body shot forward in a straight line, his dark shoe connecting with the rider's chest with enough force to send the man flying off the bike.
Damon landed perfectly on the seat, a motion so fluid and impossible he didn't even question it. He simply tilted forward, twisting the throttle, letting the wind tear past his face as he sped into the main yard.
A bullet screamed past his ear, followed by another.
He leaned hard to the side — sound and motion blending into a single fluid act, raising the bike's front wheel just enough to let the gunfire slice through empty air behind the raised wheel.
A giant of a man, shoulders like slabs of concrete and arms like steel beams, stepped into his path, roaring as he lunged a plank toward Damon.
Damon went low, backflipping off the bike just before impact, catching the plank mid-air and redirecting its momentum back toward the man.
The giant caught the plank but stumbled into the incoming motorcycle. The wooden spike pierced the bike, sending it crashing into the wall of a separate building — Obscuron Tower. For a terrifying half-second, nothing happened.
Then — BOOM.
The air itself turned solid, punching Damon in the chest as fire bloomed outward. A blinding wave of red and gold that flung his body backward like a feather.
Heat swallowed the world.
He hit the pavement hard, the pain exploding through his ribs, and the world went dark. He woke to muffled sirens and the crackle of fire. His ears rang, a high-pitched wiiiiiiiiiiiiiir that drowned out the shouts of police and the roar of the flames.
Instinct, the new, sharp awareness he had just discovered, was all he had left. Rolling onto his side, coughing up smoke, he saw the alley painted orange. A scene of crushed metal, broken glass, and burning oil.
The sound of authority was too close. One deep, agonizing breath, a final glance at the destruction, and he ran. It was the kind of fast that seemed irregular for how he looked, a sprint that only got faster with each step.
When he finally looked back, the orange glow blurred 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 didn't stop until his lungs were on fire and the city lights blurred into abstract streaks of colour.
He saw the same priest again. Smiling. But this time he tugged his glasses so Damon could see his eyes. His eyes said it all: I saw everything… and I'm not telling.
Damon didn't think much about it. Just ran. Home... No. House.
His father was slumped in the living room chair, a half-empty bottle gleaming faintly on the table.
"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 hand clamped around his father's wrist, stopping the blow mid-air, leaving both of them frozen in 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, stopped for a while. Then he crouched low and launched upward, clearing the entire staircase in one impossible motion.
He stood there, half-afraid, half in shock, a strange, small smile beginning to twitch on his lips. "What's happening to me?"
Morning arrived on Saturday, the streets already buzzing with activity. Damon jogged past a crowd gathered around the taped-off scene, drawn by the grim curiosity. Reporters, cameras, and police milled around the wreckage.
"…Twelve dead, three survivors," a reporter was saying into a microphone. "Police confirm it was caused by an explosion in the old district last night. The three survivors describe a boy in his late teens—"
Damon's stomach churned, a sudden, sickening weight.
A man in a lab coat pushed through the crowd, his face twisted with furious panic. "You idiots! These dead punks were practically test subjects! Do you have any idea what you've destroyed?!"
"Sir, calm down—" an officer started.
"Calm down? That was over nine billion yen! And it was just the prototype!" the man screamed.
A forensic scientist nearby spoke quietly, confirming the worst:
"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 partial detonation of Obscuron."
The lab coat scientist kicked a broken crate in sheer frustration, and Damon, suddenly feeling too exposed, took a step back.
"Hey, kid—scram," the cop ordered.
Damon didn't hesitate, bolting away with the same impossible speed for someone who looked like him.
"Yo!"
Damon turned, slowing his rush. "Daiki?" he asked, genuinely surprised.
Daiki flashed his easy grin, browner skin, darker hair and stylish thick Afro, confidence rolling off him like he never left.
"Dude, I thought you were in the States," Damon said with a smile on his face.
The two young men hugged. The way they hugged suggested years of missed memories, but... as best friends they were happy and caught up quick.
"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."
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, 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.
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.
The game started light, 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 was 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.
"So you're telling me, your dad's ring gave you abs? And you destroyed Dr Maniac's generator?" 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. "Why don't you prove it to me?"
His eyes dipped for a second, noticing the way her shorts hugged her legs, then he snapped them away, heat rising in his face.
"Look at me, will ya." Her palm came up. Not just a finger, but her whole hand, resting lightly under his chin, guiding his face up until their eyes met.
For a moment, in Damon's mind, the air completely froze. Wha— what is she doing?! I thought I told her not to do that. He thought, a hint of pure, startled surprise in his widening eyes. But he didn't shift her hand.
Her gaze sharpened, a smirk playing on her lips. "If you're really as strong as you say you are… prove it. Bleep test. Now."
He groaned theatrically. "You're annoying."
"Run, hero. Like it's your last."
He smirked, stretched, and took off, a cloud of dust rising behind him. She watched, stopwatch in hand, pretending not to be impressed.
When he finally hit the final beep, chest heaving. She gave a small, proud smile. Though maybe a little scared of what she had unleashed.
"How'd I do?" he asked as they both sat down.
"You impressed me, but I've seen better."
Their eyes met again, closer now. 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.