BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Damon jolted awake—someone was trying to break his damn door down. After everything that had happened, he wasn't taking chances, not anymore. He grabbed a kitchen knife, tucking it under his sleeve as he limped toward the entrance, still feeling the pain from his ankle and his ribs.
The pounding was relentless, shaking the doorframe so violently the peephole was useless.
If the tuxedo man wanted me dead, he'd have done it last night and it would've taken him nothing.
Damon yanked the door open—
Caleb tumbled inside, crashing to the floor and covered in dog feaces and pee. Damon's stomach dropped and he let out a sigh of relief. The knife clattered to the ground as Caleb scrambled up, eyes wild, hands shaking.
"What the fuck did you do last night?" Caleb shoved Damon against the wall, spit flying. "What demon did you summon? What alien did you talk to? Or—" Another shove. "—what fucking drug did you slip in my drink?"
Damon grabbed Caleb's wrists. "What did you see? Or what the fuck happened?"
Caleb's breath came in ragged bursts. When he spoke, his voice was hollow.
"It came from nowhere. A fucking frozen soldier—statue-still one second, alive the next. And its first thought?" A hysterical laugh. "To fucking murder me."
He'd run until his lungs burned and the air was already thin as it was snowing. Through the park, over playground equipment—throwing anything he could grab. Frisbees. Footballs. A trash can he could barely lift, with every muscle begging him to stop.
The thing never slowed.
Its battle axe sliced through everything like paper. Caleb's sneakers slipped on frost as he whispered, "Not like this, not like this—"
Then the freeway—safety just yards away—
His foot hit dog shit.
Caleb faceplanted on the asphalt. He rolled over just in time to see the soldier loom above him, axe raised. Those eyes—human but dead—locked onto his.
Caleb squeezed his eyes shut, praying to God for a redo at life.
...Nothing.
Thirty seconds passed. Sixty.
When he finally looked, the soldier was gone. So was the blizzard level snowstorm. The destroyed swings stood intact. Even the night itself had rewound.
But the dog shit on his jeans? Still there.
"That little Dumbo's gonna shit himself," Caleb muttered, staggering toward Damon's apartment.
"I ask again, you little shit," Caleb snarled, grabbing Damon's collar. "What the fuck did you do?"
Damon's eyes were hollow. "It's all real. We're so fucked."
"Who's we?" Caleb shook him hard enough to rattle teeth. "What do you know?"
Damon spilled everything—the tuxedo man, the nightmares, the way he'd whispered "you did this."
Caleb's grip loosened. "What d'you mean we caused this? Who's we? What did we do?"
"The fuck if I know!" Damon barked a laugh. "I'm just surprised you walked away clean—"
What do you mean I got away clean?
Caleb yanked up Damon's shirt. The bruises weren't just purple—they were blue, like frost had seeped under his skin. Caleb's breath hitched. "We're fixing this. Now."
Caleb practically dragged him to clinic. The nurse kept staring at Damon's bruises. 'I've never seen frostbite… asking a million questions before covering it up.
The nurse had left, but the smell of antiseptic lingered. Damon sat on the exam table, ribs wrapped, ankle braced, shoulder stitched.
Caleb tossed him a Twix. "Good boy." He pulled out his phone, scrolling through contacts. "So far, it's just us. But we need to—"
"We survived," Damon interrupted. "Let the others deal with their own shit."
Caleb's thumb froze mid-scroll. He looked up slowly. "What part of this screams 'one-time event' to you?"
"So how do we figure out who else is in this?" Damon leaned against the clinic wall, wincing as his wrapped ribs protested. "If we go warning random people, they'll think we're crazy. But if we don't...they might die."
Caleb barked a laugh. "Dude, you have no circle. You're barely at school. Which means..." He gestured between them. "Probably just us."
Caleb shook his head. "We still can't assume. Let's just stay on guard for now."
"Yeah, sure." Damon rolled his eyes. "After my date, we're talking this through properly."
"Wait—what date?"
"My date. With Isabella." Damon's voice went defensive.
Caleb stared. "We just got hunted by supernatural hitmen and you're worried about a girl?"
"You have Patrick," Damon shot back. "Maybe I don't want to be alone forever." He gestured to his injuries. "And yeah, I'm going. Ribs and all."
"Christ." Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose. "At least wash the blood stain off your shoulder first."
Damon had chosen his outfit carefully: black polka-dot button-up, dark jeans, and his signature blue jean jacket—the one with the frayed cuffs that made him feel less like a walking disaster.
Then Isabella arrived.
Her dress was the color of storm clouds—a sleek, silvery-gray that shimmered when she moved through the perfectly lit mall, the fabric clinging to her curves before flaring just above the knees. The neckline dipped subtly, revealing the delicate chain of a necklace Damon hadn't seen before. But it was the thigh-high boots that sealed it: black leather, with just enough heel to make her stride confident without sacrificing the ability to run if needed.
Damon's mouth went dry.
Isabella's smile hit Damon like a sucker punch—all warmth and danger and things he couldn't name. Then she closed the distance between them, and the first words out of her mouth were:
"This is for ditching me at the football game."
A sharp elbow to his ribs. Damon doubled over, the pain from his injuries flaring. "Fuck—I'm sorry, I completely forgot—"
"It's fine," she said, but the tightness around her eyes said otherwise. At least she'd shown up. That meant he still had a chance to fix this. Maybe even make her fall for him.
But as they walked through the mall, every head turned to follow Isabella. Damon's palms grew slick with sweat. The weight of eyes on them—judging, assessing—made his skin crawl. He panicked, grabbing the first restaurant in sight: Le Muse.
The place was a joke. Blue and pink tinsel hung limply from the ceiling, the "French" decor looking more like a middle-school prom gone wrong. They hadn't even ordered yet, and already the conversation stuttered—equal parts awkward first date and comfortable familiarity.
Then Isabella stiffened. "Do you know her?"
Damon followed her gaze. A girl sat alone at the bar, staring. At first, he didn't recognize her. But when their eyes met—something flickered in his memory. Those eyes. He'd seen them before.
"No," he lied.
Too late. The girl—Esther—was already sliding into the chair beside them.
"So this is the legendary Isabella Harper," she said, extending a hand with a crooked smile.
Isabella didn't take it.
Esther turned to Damon. For a split second, her pupils slit—thin as a cat's—before snapping back to normal.
Damon's stomach dropped.
Everything had just gone to hell.