The next day, Henry decided he had earned a break.
Dean and Sam were already knee-deep in whatever haunted campus Ellen had pointed them toward, and for once Henry didn't feel guilty about staying out of it.
After getting thrown into walls, strangled by his possessed cousin, and nearly turned into emotional collateral damage, he figured self-care counted as strategy.
So instead of following them to another dusty building with bad lighting and worse vibes, he headed downtown.
He chose the most expensive hotel in the city on purpose.
Polished glass doors. Marble floors. Staff that smiled too professionally. The kind of place that didn't smell like mildew and regret.
Henry walked up to the reception desk, adjusting his jacket like he belonged there.
"I'd like your best room," he said calmly. "And it needs a large bathtub. The kind you can disappear in."
The receptionist blinked once, then shifted into practiced hospitality mode. "Of course, sir. We have a premium suite on the upper floor."
"Good," Henry replied. "After the week I've had, I plan on boiling myself alive."
He handed over the card he had "restructured" earlier and let his eyes sweep across the lobby one last time.
A staff member escorted him to the top floor. The elevator doors opened into a quiet hallway lined with thick carpet and framed art.
When the suite door finally shut behind him, Henry didn't bother pretending to be composed. He dropped his bag near the entrance and fell backward onto the bed.
The mattress dipped and held him.
"I missed this," he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. "Those motel beds don't even come close."
He stretched out, feeling the softness under his back, then rolled onto his side and laughed quietly to himself.
After a few minutes, he pushed himself up and walked into the bathroom.
The tub was large enough to actually lie down in without folding himself in half. He turned the water hot, waited for steam to rise, then stepped in and lowered himself slowly until the heat wrapped around him.
A low hum escaped his throat.
"Yeah… I definitely miss this feeling."
He leaned back and looked down at his body through the rippling water. Red bruises stained his chest and ribs. Stitches tugged at the skin of his palm. The last few hunts had not been gentle.
Then he remembered.
When the demon had been exorcised, the system had triggered a lucky gacha draw.
Henry leaned back against the edge of the tub and focused.
"Let's see what comes out of that," he muttered, reaching for the interface.
The wheel formed in front of him, rewards circling in a steady spin. Icons flashed past—blades, charms, strange relics—until the motion slowed. It skipped over broader sections and drifted toward a thinner slice of the wheel, a narrow mark stained deep red.
The pointer stopped.
A blood-shaped sigil glowed faintly.
[ Blood of the Revenant ]
Henry straightened slightly in the tub as the description unfolded.
[Effect: Accelerates the body's natural healing processes, repairing cuts, bruises, torn muscles, and even fractured bones at approximately ten times the normal human rate.]
His eyes moved lower.
[Side Effect: Your blood contains dense supernatural energy, making you highly noticeable to supernatural creatures. Any entity that consumes your blood gains a temporary increase in physical strength.]
He frowned faintly.
[Additional Trait — Revenant Impact (1% Activation Chance): When delivering a punch with full physical force, there is a 1% chance to trigger Revenant Impact. Upon activation, a layer of ghostly energy forms around your fist at the point of contact, releasing a concentrated shockwave that significantly amplifies the strike's destructive power. ]
"Fast healing," he murmured quietly. "But I turn into a walking signal flare."
Then he noticed it.
The bruises across his ribs were lightening. Not instantly. Not magically disappearing. But fading at a steady, visible pace.
The swelling along his shoulder reduced. The tight pull around the stitches in his palm eased as the skin began knitting faster than it had any right to.
He flexed his hand once.
"Good ability," Henry muttered.
He drained the tub, dried off, and dressed.
He walked toward it, ready to collapse.
Then his skin started to itch.
At first it was faint, a prickling along his neck. Then it spread across his arms, his chest, down his back. Within seconds it became unbearable.
"What the fuck?" Henry muttered, looking down.
His skin had turned red in patches. Tiny raised bumps appeared along his forearms. He scratched once and immediately regretted it as the irritation doubled.
He grabbed his shirt and shook it out.
Fine white powder fell from the fabric onto the floor.
He froze.
Among his clothes, tucked between folds in his bag, was a small packet—torn open.
Itching powder.
The relaxed expression he'd been wearing vanished.
"Who the fuck put this in my bag?" he said through clenched teeth as he scratched his arm again, already furious.
***
The motel room felt smaller than usual.
Sam sat at the small table, surrounded by open books, and highlighted pages. He was flipping through a journal.
On the bed, Dean was sprawled comfortably, shoes still on, a basket of fries drowning in gravy balanced beside him. Music played from a small radio near his shoulder. He flipped a page in a magazine while chewing loudly.
"Dude," Sam said without looking up, "you mind not eating those on my bed?"
Dean didn't even glance at him. "No, I don't mind."
Gravy sloshed slightly as he dipped another fry.
"How's the research going?" Dean asked casually.
Sam closed the book with more force than necessary and turned in his chair. "You know how it's going? Slow. You know how it would go a heck of a lot faster?" He gestured toward the empty space beside him. "If I had my computer."
Dean smiled, satisfied, and nodded as if that proved something.
The radio crackled louder.
"Could you turn that down, please?" Sam asked, irritation clear now.
"Yeah, absolutely," Dean replied.
He leaned over and turned the volume up.
Sam stared at him. "You know what? Maybe you should just go somewhere for a while."
Dean shrugged. "Hey, that's a great idea. I'd love to. Unfortunately, my car is all screwed to hell."
"Dean, I told you, I have nothing to do with—"
The motel door suddenly burst open.
Henry stormed in, face bright red, hair slightly damp, shirt half-buttoned.
"Tell me," he demanded, pointing at both of them, "which one of you put the itching powder in my bag?"
Dean blinked.
Sam stared.
Henry scratched his forearm aggressively.
Dean slowly lowered his fries. "Whoa, whoa. What?"
Sam frowned. "Why would we put itching powder in your bag?"
*****
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