Sunlight sliced through the motel curtains like accusatory fingers, painting stripes across the rumpled bed. Mystic Falls stirred outside: birdsong, a distant car door slamming, the low murmur of early risers.
He'd barely slept, tossing through fever-dream replays of the teleportation, the pizza's greasy comfort now a sour knot in his gut.
Yesterday's shadows had been nothing—a raccoon, probably, scavenging the lot. But doubt gnawed at him. He showered in the motel's tepid trickle, the water pressure as weak as his resolve.
Dressed in yesterday's clothes, he pocketed his wallet and stepped out into the crisp Virginia morning. The air hummed with something electric, like the town itself was holding its breath. 2 days. Canon loomed like a storm front.
He needed air. Movement. Anything to shake the vertigo. The town square was a short walk, all cobblestone charm and clapboard storefronts straight out of a Hallmark reject.
Tourists milled about—oblivious humans snapping pics of the clock tower—while James stuck to the edges, blending into the periphery. A coffee shop caught his eye: The Grill, or whatever passed for it here.
Inside, the scent of bacon and burnt coffee grounded him. He ordered a black drip—$2.50, cash—and claimed a corner stool, nursing it like a lifeline.
The place buzzed with locals: a silver-haired mayor type barking into his cell, a gaggle of high school girls giggling over lattes. No fangs, no fur. Just... normal. Almost.
That's when it happened again. Mid-sip, the air shimmered. The holographic screen materialized, inches from his face, blocking the steam rising from his mug.
A few patrons glanced his way—had they seen it? No, their eyes slid past, unfocused. Invisible to them. A private glitch.
DO YOU WISH TO GAIN THE ABILITY: FIRE (ALLOWS USER TO WIELD FIRE, IMAGINATION IS THE ONLY LIMIT)?
James choked on his coffee, sputtering droplets onto the counter. Fire. Wield it like... what? A superhero? In TVD lore, witches flung flames with spells, but this? No incantations, no grimoires. Just imagination.
His mind reeled—pyrokinesis, straight out of X-Men, dropped into a world of bloodsuckers and hybrids. The barista shot him a weird look; he waved it off with a cough.
Yes or no. The buttons pulsed, expectant. Refuse, and he'd be human chum in a supernatural pond. Accept, and... power. Real power. The kind that could torch a vampire mid-snarl or light up the night like a signal flare. His finger trembled, then stabbed YES.
The screen imploded into sparks, a warm rush flooding his veins like liquid sunlight. It started in his chest, a ember blooming, then spread—fingertips tingling, skin flushing hot.
No pain, just potential. He flexed his hand; nothing visible, but he felt it. Coiled, ready. The coffee mug warmed under his palm, steam curling thicker. Holy shit.
He bolted from the Grill, heart hammering, mumbling apologies to no one. Outside, the square's bustle felt claustrophobic. He needed space.
Testing ground. Ducking into an alley behind the butcher shop—stinking of offal and regret—he glanced around. Empty. Perfect.
Thirty minutes. That's how long it took for the rush to settle into something controllable. He started small: palm up, envision a flicker. A tiny flame danced on his skin, blue-hot and steady, no burn.
Laughter bubbled up, manic. He cupped it like a lighter, then grew it—a softball of fire, hovering, obedient. Imagination's the limit?
He pictured a whip, and there it was: a lash of flame cracking against the brick wall, scorching a black streak without crumbling mortar. Controlled. Precise.
Fun. God, actual fun. He juggled orbs—three, four—tossing them skyward like flaming hacky sacks, the alley lighting up in staccato bursts.
No smoke alarm, no witnesses. Just him, 21 and invincible, grinning like an idiot. For the first time since the teleport, New York felt like a bad dream. This? This was the plot twist he'd kill for.
The alley ended at a chain-link fence, beyond which sprawled an overgrown lot—vacant, weeds choking cracked asphalt, a rusted swing set creaking in the breeze.
Nobody around. He vaulted the fence, landing light, and let loose. Streams of fire arced like comets, spelling his initials in the air before fizzling into harmless sparks.
He sculpted a bonfire in his hands, feeding it shapes: a roaring lion, its mane licking the sky; a serpent coiling around his arm, scales glinting orange. Sweat beaded his brow, but exhilaration drowned it. Power thrummed in his blood, wild and alive.
That's when they came.
A rustle in the underbrush—too deliberate for wind. James froze, flames snuffing out on instinct. Two figures melted from the shadows: men, mid-20s maybe, lean and sharp-featured, dressed in faded hoodies and jeans that screamed "eternal college dropout."
Their skin gleamed unnaturally pale under the noon sun, eyes blackening like oil slicks. Daylight rings glinted on their fingers—thick silver bands etched with runes, warding off the burn. Vampires. Rippers, by the hollow-cheeked hunger etching their faces.
They moved like smoke, flanking him in a blur. The first—tall, with a buzzcut and a scar twisting his lip—snarled, fangs elongating. "Lost, little lamb? Smell like fresh meat. City boy, huh? New York's got nothing on Virginia blood."
The second, shorter with greasy curls, circled left, cracking knuckles that hadn't aged in decades. "Share nicely, Dex. School's got the good stuff locked up. This one's fair game." Their voices were gravel and silk, laced with that immortal arrogance.
Hungry didn't cover it; they were starving, eyes darting to his throat like wolves on a lame deer.
James backed up, palms itching. Run? To where? The Grill was a block away, but they'd rip his spine out before he hit the alley. Fight? He was no Salvatore brother, no heretic hybrid. Just a barista with a parlor trick. But the fire... it whispered, eager.
"Back off," he warned, voice steadier than he felt. "Not in the mood."
Buzzcut—Dex—laughed, a wet rasp. "Cute. What's your gift, kid? Witch? Wolf pup? Or just dessert?" He lunged, faster than a blink, hand clamping James's shoulder like iron.
Pain flared—vamp strength, bruising bone. The second vamp blurred in, grabbing his arm, twisting it back. Fangs grazed his neck, hot breath reeking of copper and decay.
Panic ignited. Fire.
It erupted from him like a supernova. Not controlled, not pretty—just raw, brutal need. Flames exploded from his core, sheathing his body in a corona of hellfire.
Dex screamed first, high and inhuman, as the blaze chewed through his hoodie, searing flesh to char. James didn't think; he felt. Imagined the fire burrowing, seeking veins, boiling blood from the inside.
Dex's grip spasmed, black smoke curling from his pores. Blisters bubbled on his face, skin sloughing like wet paper. He staggered back, clawing at his throat, but the flames followed—James's will, a living noose.
"What... the fuck?" Dex gurgled, eyes melting in their sockets. The daylight ring glowed red-hot, fusing to his finger like a brand, useless against this inferno.
The second vamp—Greasy—shoved off, horror twisting his features. "Witch! He's a goddamn—" But James was already turning, fury channeling the power.
He thrust his hand out, envisioning a spear: a lance of white-hot plasma lancing forward, punching through Greasy's chest. It didn't just pierce; it detonated.
Ribs cracked audibly, heart igniting like a flare. Greasy howled, collapsing to his knees, flames licking up his torso in greedy tongues.
He thrashed, nails raking furrows in the dirt, begging in a voice shredded to whispers. "Please... mercy..."
Mercy? These things would've drained him dry, left his corpse for the crows. James advanced, the air warping with heat haze. He knelt, close enough to feel the sizzle of evaporating blood. "Hungry?" he mocked, voice low and alien to his ears.
With a thought, he summoned tendrils—writhing whips that coiled around Greasy's limbs, tightening like barbed wire. They burned slow, deliberate, charring muscle from bone in agonizing increments.
The vamp's screams peaked, a symphony of agony, before his throat blackened to silence.
Dex, not done yet, crawled toward the fence, trailing a smear of molten flesh. James flicked a wrist; a fireball bloomed in his palm, hurled like a fastball.
It struck Dex's back, exploding on impact. Vertebrae shattered in a spray of embers, his body convulsing as the fire raced through nerves, a neural wildfire.
He arched, spine bowing, a final gurgle escaping charred lips. Then stillness, two husks smoldering in the weeds, rings warped into slag.
James stood, chest heaving, the flames receding like a tide. His hands trembled, unmarred— no burns, no scorch. But the lot reeked of barbecue and ozone, acrid enough to choke.
He retched, bile rising, but swallowed it down. Brutal. Painful. Necessary. In this world, hesitation was a death sentence.
Sirens wailed faintly—someone in the Grill must've heard the screams. Time to vanish. He vaulted the fence again, slipping into the alley's shadows, heart a war drum.
Power coursed through him, intoxicating and vile. He'd killed. Not in a game, not in a script. Real. And part of him—the dark, hungry part—liked it.
The square loomed ahead, oblivious tourists chattering. James melted into them, a ghost with fire in his veins.