BEEP!

BEEP!

BEEP!

The sharp rhythm of a heartbeat monitor drilled into Damon’s ears. After what had happened with the Banshee, he was surprised he could hear anything at all.

He tried to open his eyes, expecting the academy infirmary, or at least a hospital room.

Instead, he found himself floating in a void.

Endless darkness stretched in every direction, broken only by the distant beeping of the monitor, the lone sound piercing the suffocating emptiness.

[HOST PARTIALLY ACCEPTED]

[CURRENT BODY TOO WEAK TO GAIN ABILITIES]

[TASK: WORK OUT]

[REWARD: CLASS — SOVEREIGN]

"Work out...?"

His voice came out distorted, as though it were being crushed beneath the weight of the ocean floor. It was barely more than a faint buzz, swallowed whole by the void.

"W-What...?"

A sudden, stabbing pain flared through his left ear. Then, for the first time, another sound broke through the darkness.

"Preparing to resuscitate!"

***

Damon jolted upright, clutching his chest as he fought for breath. His vision flickered in black and white while he looked around in a daze. Blurred faces of doctors and nurses surrounded him, and in the doorway, he caught sight of what looked like his father leaving alongside another Slayer.

"W-What...?"

"Thank God you’re alive!"

Warmth suddenly enveloped him as someone threw their arms around his neck. The voice was familiar, soft, trembling, and comforting.

A woman.

But not just any woman.

’Is this... Lena?’

Damon blinked hard, his vision slowly resolving from blurry shapes into actual people. The infirmary’s white ceiling came into focus first, then the IV stand beside his bed, then the mop of brown hair pressed against his chest.

It was Lena. The same Lena who’d been trapped in the basement. The same Lena who’d been ghosted by everyone else in the chat.

She was crying. Actually crying. Her shoulders shook with each quiet sob, and her arms tightened around his neck like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go.

"You absolute idiot," she choked out. "You complete and utter moron. What were you thinking?!"

"I was... thinking you needed help?"

"By getting yourself killed?!"

Lena pulled back, and Damon finally got a clear look at her face. Her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks streaked with tears, but her glare could have melted steel.

"You told me you were getting a professor. A professor, Damon. Not charging in yourself like some kind of... of..."

"Slayer?" he offered weakly.

"You’re not a Slayer! You don’t have a working system! You could have died!"

The words hit harder than the Banshee’s sonic screech. Damon felt his jaw tighten, the familiar shame coiling in his stomach. She wasn’t wrong. He knew she wasn’t wrong.

But before he could respond, a new voice cut through the room.

"The boy has more spine than half the A-Ranks I’ve worked with."

Damon turned his head. Leaning against the doorframe was the elf from before. Her golden hair was tied back now, and her serpentine eyes studied him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Curiosity, maybe. Or suspicion.

She’d swapped her combat gear for a simple tank top, but the bow was still slung across her back. The crystalline arrows had been replaced.

"You’re awake," she said, stating the obvious. "Good. I’d hate to have wasted those arrows on a corpse."

"Uh... thanks?"

"Oh, and one more thing. Your father was here. He stayed for six hours while you were unconscious. Left about ten minutes before you woke up. Something about an emergency breach."

Damon’s heart clenched.

His father had been here. Had stayed, and had probably watched his son’s corpse lying on a hospital bed for six hours.

"Don’t worry, I’ll tell him the news. Nice meeting you, child."

The elf walked away without another word, leaving Lena and Damon alone in the hospital room, her grip on him not loosening in the slightest.

"You don’t have to hold on so tight," Damon said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. "I’m not going anywhere."

Lena sniffled, finally loosening her grip. She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, smearing tears across her cheek. "You don’t get to make jokes right now. You almost died. The doctors said your heart stopped twice on the table. Twice, Damon."

"I’ve had worse."

"No, you haven’t." She fixed him with a glare that left no room for argument. "You’ve never fought anything in your life. You’ve never even been injured in a practical. The worst thing that’s ever happened to you was Professor Harlow’s lectures."

Damon couldn’t argue with that.

Lena pulled back fully, settling into the plastic chair beside his bed. She looked exhausted, with dark circles hung beneath her eyes.

"How long was I out?"

"Three days."

"Three days?!"

"The Banshee’s death wail shattered half the corridor. You took the full force of it point-blank. The only reason you’re not a red smear on the floor is because..."

She paused, her brow furrowing.

"Actually, the doctors couldn’t figure that part out. But that doesn’t matter, at least you’re alive!"

"Three days," Damon repeated, the words tasting foreign in his mouth.

Three days gone. Three days of his father waiting by his bedside. Three days of Lena probably blaming herself.

He looked down at his hands. They were intact. Unscarred. He flexed his fingers, half-expecting them to crumble to ash.

"Can I... have a moment alone?" he asked quietly.

Lena hesitated, her puffy eyes searching his face. "Damon—"

"Just a minute. Please."

She bit her lip, then nodded. "I’ll be right outside. And if you try to get out of that bed, I’ll tie you to it myself."

"Noted."

She slipped out the door, leaving it cracked just enough that he could see her shadow pacing in the hallway.

The moment he was alone, Damon let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for three days.

"System," he whispered.

Nothing.

He tried again, louder. "System. Status."

The familiar translucent blue screen flickered to life, but it was different now. The text didn’t mock him. It didn’t list his failures or remind him he was unassigned.

It was gold. Warm gold, like sunlight through honey.

[SYSTEM STATUS – RESONATOR: DAMON PERSIVAL]

Class: [SOVEREIGN] - LOCKED

Abilities: [LOCKED - PHYSICAL REQUIREMENTS NOT MET]

Current Task: [WORKOUT]

Task Progress: [0%]

NOTE: HOST BODY IS CURRENTLY IN A STATE OF CRITICAL RECOVERY. PHYSICAL EXERTION INADVISABLE FOR APPROXIMATELY 72 HOURS.

Damon stared at the screen.

Sovereign.

The word was there. Real. Not a hallucination brought on by near-death delirium.

He reached out, his fingers passing through the golden text. It rippled like water.

"Two years," he muttered. "Two years of nothing, and you decide to wake up now?"

The system didn’t respond. But a new line of text appeared at the bottom of the screen.

[ADDITIONAL NOTE: SELF-SACRIFICIAL ACTION MET PARAMETERS FOR SOVEREIGN CANDIDACY. A SOVEREIGN PROTECTS THOSE WITHIN THEIR DOMAIN REGARDLESS OF PERSONAL COST. HOST HAS DEMONSTRATED THIS QUALITY.]

"So I had to almost die for you to take me seriously?"

Damon let out a laugh that hurt his ribs.

’Of course...’

Of course, his system would be this stubborn. It suited him, as much as Damon hated to admit it. But that still didn’t change the fact that this same stubbornness was the cause of all his suffering.

He dismissed the screen and lay back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling.

Seventy-two hours before he could even start working out. Seventy-two hours before he could begin earning the class that was now dangling just out of reach.

But for the first time in two years, he had a direction.

He had a task.

He had a class name that didn’t make him want to disappear.

’Sovereign.’

The door creaked open, and Lena poked her head in. "You done?"

"Yeah."

The door opened wider, and Lena slipped back inside. She was carrying two cups of something steaming, the bitter scent of cheap infirmary coffee filling the room.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," she said, pressing one of the cups into his hands. "More than usual, I mean."

Damon wrapped his fingers around the warmth. "Just... processing."

"Processing nearly dying?"

"Guess you could say that."

Lena settled back into the chair, tucking her legs beneath her. She’d stopped crying, but her eyes were still red, and she kept glancing at him like he would crumble the moment she stopped paying attention.

"You scared the hell out of me," she said quietly. "When I heard that scream, I thought..."

"I know."

"Why did you do it? Really?"

Damon stared into his coffee. The answer was complicated. Partly because he’d given up on himself. Partly because the math had made sense. Partly because, for one moment, he’d wanted to matter.

But he couldn’t say any of that. Not to Lena. Not when she was looking at him like he was some kind of hero.

"Because everyone else ghosted you," he said finally. "And I know how that feels."

Lena went very still. Then, slowly, she reached out and punched him in the arm.

Hard.

"Ow—"

"That’s for being an idiot." She punched him again, softer this time. "And that’s for making me feel things. Disgusting."

Damon rubbed his arm, but he was almost smiling. "When did you get so honest about your feelings?"

"Turns out watching someone almost die for you does that."