Damian winced as the paramedic finished positioning a small splint on his nose and handed him an ice pack.
"You'll need an X-ray and a follow-up with a doctor, but this should help until then."
Damian muttered a quiet thanks. Callum said nothing.
He sat at the opposite end of the holding cell, his back pressed against the cold concrete wall, his bruised knuckles resting under an ice pack of their own. His ribs ached, sharply and deeply, every breath laced with discomfort. Damian's uppercut had packed quite a punch, and Callum suspected something had cracked. He should have told the paramedics. Should have let them check.
But he didn't want them poking and prodding beneath his shirt, pressing into places that already felt too raw.
He just wanted to be left alone with his thoughts.
The paramedic picked up her first aid kit and left, and the officer standing guard locked the cell door behind her. He tipped his hat lower over his face, shaking his head.
"Now you both have the rest of the night to cool off," he muttered, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like this wasn't the first bar fight he'd had to deal with. "Damn grown men fighting like toddlers in a club. It's the alcohol, I tell ya."
His footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving Callum and Damian alone.
The silence between them was thick, heavy, pressing against Callum's ribs like a second layer of pain. Damian shifted, leaning lazily against the wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent up so he could rest his arm on his knee. His bandaged nose distorted his usual smirk, but his amusement was still evident in the way his eyes flickered with barely contained mirth.
"Look at you," Damian drawled, voice raspier than usual. "A locked-up CEO. Daddy must be so proud."
Callum didn't take the bait. Didn't even look at him. "Fuck you."
Damian's smirk widened. "Oh, I'm sure you'd like that. But I don't think my boyfriend would approve."
Callum let out a dry laugh. "Your boyfriend hates you."
A third voice cut through the tension. "His boyfriend would like both of you to shut up."
Callum's head snapped up.
Micah stood on the other side of the cell bars, arms crossed, exhaustion evident in the lines of his face.
Callum swallowed hard, the weight of his own actions hitting him full force. What the hell had he been thinking? Fighting Damian in the middle of a club like some brainless brute. Sure, part of it was about defending Micah—about standing up for him against whatever twisted mind games Damian was playing—but if Callum was being honest with himself, he'd wanted to punch Damian's lights out for a long time.
But now, standing in front of them, Micah just looked… tired. Exhausted from crying on the dancefloor on his birthday.
Callum felt like shit.
Damian, of course, didn't seem remotely bothered. He tilted his head, the smirk still there despite the bruises forming along his jaw.
"Micah, love," he cooed. "You should be back at the hotel."
Micah's expression remained blank. "Well, I can't just up and leave you two here, so I'll be in the waiting room."
Callum shifted, voice low. "Genesis, Elle, and Rosa?"
"They went home," Micah replied.
Silence stretched between them. The distant hum of police chatter filled the background, the occasional ring of a phone cutting through the air.
Then, Micah spoke again. "What did you mean by that?" His voice was steady, but Callum could hear the tension beneath it. "When you said it was Callum's dumb spell that started this entire thing?"
Callum's stomach turned to lead.
Damian glanced at him. Your move.
Callum swallowed and forced himself to meet Micah's gaze. "After Ashur died… I was overcome with grief. I wanted to change it. To change the past. Rewrite the future. I don't know. I just wanted him back."
His voice cracked at the last part, but he pushed forward. "So I found this mage. And I guess… he did something."
Micah frowned. "You guess?"
Callum winced. He didn't like the accusation in Micah's voice, didn't like how small he suddenly felt under his scrutiny. "I don't really remember much from back then, Micah."
And that was the truth.
His dreams were sporadic, disjointed, like someone had taken his past life and smashed it against a wall, leaving only the most fractured pieces behind. Some memories were so sharp he could still feel them like phantom wounds. Others… others felt washed out, like they had been bled dry of color.
Maybe that was just how reincarnation worked. You never got enough to see the full picture.
Perhaps he should write a paper about it.
Or perhaps Damian should—since he seemed to have everything so perfectly figured out.
Because, when Micah asked, "And that other thing? That I'm—we're going to—?"
Damian didn't even hesitate. "You're going to die, Micah."
Callum's head snapped up. "Damian!"
Micah stood frozen. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
Then, softly, almost absently, he whispered, "Well, everyone dies someday."
Damian's expression was unreadable. "You're going to die young. Sometime between now and the next few months, maybe years. But you're never going to grow old." He tilted his head. "The kind of death people pray against."
Micah pressed a hand to his mouth, his voice barely a breath. "Christ."
"Think about it," Damian continued, relentlessly. "The attack. The explosion. That feeling you get—like the end is nigh."
Callum shot to his feet. "Don't listen to him, Micah! I won't let anything happen—"
Damian cut him off, voice dripping with mockery. "And in this corner, we have The White Knight—"
Callum's blood boiled. His fists clenched. "Are you itching to have your nose rebroken?"
"Stop!" Micah yelled.
At the same time, the officer's voice rang out from somewhere in the station. "Can it, you two!"
The anger simmered down. Callum forced himself to sit back down, the tension still electric between them.
Micah avoided their gazes. His wide eyed stare fixed to the ground as he muttered. "I'll see you both in a few hours."
He turned to walk away.
But before he could leave, Damian called out, "Wait."
Micah stopped, shoulders rigid.
Damian's voice was softer now. "What did you mean by that? When you told Callum I scare you?"
Silence.
Micah's hands trembled at his sides, clenched tight like they were the only thing holding him together. Then he left, without a single word.
Callum felt the moment Damian's smirk dropped. He didn't see it, but he felt it. Felt the sadness pouring off him in waves.
It didn't make him as happy as he thought it would.
Damian leaned back against the wall, exhaling sharply.
"Look what you've done," he muttered.
Callum let out a humorless laugh. "What I've done?"
Damian arched a brow. "Need I remind you, you're the one who attacked me."
Callum didn't reply. He didn't need a reminder. His aching fist was enough reminder.
Instead, he changed the subject. "That name you mentioned," he said, voice quiet. "Dorian. That's the name of the main character of Micah's game. I didn't recognize it when I played it, but now…"
Damian's eyes flickered. "Now?"
Callum exhaled. "I remember we— Ashur and I— talked about it once. One of our many pipe dreams. That if I took him somewhere no one knew us, we'd get a tiny cabin. Adopt a son. Give him the name—"
"Dorian," Damian finished for him.
The name sent a shudder down Callum's spine.
Light swam in his vision, and for a moment, he was back in Aeryndale, standing in the shadow of the castle, Ashur's laughter ringing in his ears.
"We'll name him Dorian," Ashur had said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "After your favorite poet."
Callum had laughed, pulling Ashur into his arms. "You just want an excuse to call him 'Dory.'"
Ashur had grinned, unrepentant. "Maybe."
The memory faded, leaving Callum with a hollow ache in his chest. He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling of the holding cell.
"Yeah," Callum's throat tightened. "You said that I—"
"Lied to me about who you are when I took you in as an act of kindness," Damian filled in the blank again.
Callum closed his eyes. Light swam in his vision. Did he really do that? Did he really adopt a new name to get closer to Edric? To do..
"I thought 'Caelan' was dead," Damian continued, softly. "And a man called Dorian stood before me that reminded me a bit of him but not nearly enough for me to realise they were the same. It's the grief. It changed you. Hollowed you out."
At least that didn't seem like a lie. From what he could remember, the man before Ashur died and the man afterwards might as well have been two separate people.
"What did I do, Damian?" He asked, his voice a mere whisper.
Damian's voice was hoarse. Tired. "I can't tell you that."
"Can't? Or won't?"
Damian said nothing.
"Just tell me. Please," Callum didn't mind begging. His pride hated him for it but he wanted this to end. He wanted to resolve whatever bullshit they had going on and take a break. Life was already hard enough and, with the whole reincarnation thing…
It was too much.
He would endure being just Micah's friend. He would come for birthday parties without ruining them. He just needed to know. "We can move past all this. We can learn to get along."
Callum opened his eyes as Damian sighed, tucking a knee to his chest. "There's no moving past this, Callum."
Callum's voice was quiet. "Why? You haven't even tried. Why can't we just air everything out, forgive each other and heal?"
Damian shook his head. "That's easy to say when half your memories are trapped somewhere in that noggin' of yours. I hate to break it to you, but there is no healing from this."
"Why?"
Damian let out a hollow laugh. "Because we were made to hurt each other." He turned his head, eyes dark with something Callum couldn't quite name.
"So let us hurt," Damian whispered. "Until we both bleed."