Luka stood motionless, staring at the cold, lifeless body at his feet, his long blonde hair dancing in the wind, strands shifting just enough to veil his face partially, then—he grinned. It stretched slowly, unnervingly wide, twisting his features into something almost inhuman, and at that moment, he looked less like a warrior and more like a devil. Damien had seen that expression before—it wasn't malice or cruelty—it was exhilaration, the rush of battle still coursing through Luka's veins. Before Damien could speak, Luka's head snapped toward him with laser-sharp precision, his cold, focused eyes locking onto Damien like a predator spotting prey, a chill running down Damien's spine. When did Luka get so scary? For a moment, it felt like Luka might attack without warning, but just as quickly as it came, the bloodlust vanished, his expression softening and replaced by his usual wide, almost goofy grin.
"Hey! Didn't see ya there," Luka said casually as if they weren't standing in an alley full of mutilated corpses, and Damien exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. "Yeah, I got here a few minutes ago," he replied. Silence settled between them, broken only by the distant hum of the city, indifferent to the bloodshed around them.
"I didn't want to jump in. You looked like you were having fun," Damien finally said, and Luka laughed, loud and booming, his voice echoing off the alley walls. "You know me so well!" Damien chuckled, though unease lingered in his chest, his eyes flicking toward the bodies—lifeless, motionless, discarded like trash, and a lump rose in his throat, which he swallowed down. Meanwhile, Luka still looked thrilled, as if he was replaying the fight in his head, savoring every second.
"We should probably call the local police," Damien muttered. "You know, for cleanup." After giving a detailed report, they made their way back to the clothing store where they'd left Mrs. Sharp. As they walked, Damien noticed passersby's fearful glances. Luka noticed, too, and sighed. "It's criminals like them who give us a bad name." He wasn't wrong. Deviants were feared and misunderstood. Most who fought for humanity were stationed on the islands or studying at the Academy, but a few, like Luka, worked with the government to track down criminals the police couldn't handle. To most people, deviants were synonymous with death. Damien bit his lip, drawing blood. "Or maybe it's the fact that you're covered in blood, walking down a public street." Luka looked down at his stained shirt—once white—and laughed. "Yeah, that could be it."
About thirty minutes later, they arrived at the store. Mrs. Sharp stood outside, still pale, her blonde hair lacking its usual life, and her blue eyes dulled with worry, clearly terrified for Luka. Little did she know, she raised a devil, Damien thought as she rushed toward them. Mrs. Sharp sprinted in heels and hugged both of them, catching Damien off guard. He expected her concern to be solely for Luka, but she seemed worried about him too. Not that he minded—being cared for by someone so beautiful felt... nice. After a few moments, she stepped back, her expression shifting, the warmth vanishing and replaced by a sharp glare that made Damien's stomach drop. Even Luka looked uneasy.
"Luka," she snapped. "Don't you ever run off like that again without telling me, or next time, I'll kill you." Damien's mouth dropped, unable to believe those words came from the same woman he'd spent two weeks admiring. Then it clicked—Luka's madness didn't come from nowhere. Luka shivered and looked down. "Yes, ma'am." Satisfied, Mrs. Sharp smiled sweetly again. "Good. Now, let's get you two home. I'll cook supper."
Dinner was simple but delicious. After polishing off his share, Damien excused himself and went to his room. He hadn't fought but ran over ten kilometers to find the deviants, his legs aching as he heard Luka snoring through the walls. Collapsing onto his soft bed, he sank into the mattress with a sigh. Ah, I'm going to miss this. They'd return to the Academy tomorrow to prepare for the end-of-year tournament—the moment to decide which squad they ended up in, and Damien couldn't stop thinking about it. He was nearly seventeen. Every Deviant dreamed of the day they'd unlock their ability. One more week, Damien thought, smiling as he drifted off.
Damien woke—not in his comfortable bed, but in an open field. Soft grass cushioned him, and warm sunlight kissed his skin, the air smelled of flowers. Towering trees stretched into the sky, their green leaves shimmering in the breeze. A clear river split the forest in two, the water reflecting the sun's golden rays. White daffodils surrounded him, swaying in the wind—his mother's favorite flower. Smiling, Damien plucked one and inhaled deeply. The scent was familiar and comforting. For a moment, he felt at peace.
Then, a voice shattered the quiet. "It's time for dinner!" It was loud, yet familiar. Damien frowned. He'd heard it countless times but couldn't place it. A shadow loomed over him. Blinking against the light, he looked up and saw a man standing above him, hand extended—jet-black hair, warm brown eyes, and a warm smile.
Blake. "You just gonna lay there, weirdo? Dinner's ready," Blake teased. Heat spread through Damien's chest. Being near Blake always felt like basking in the sun. "Oh, I just migh—" Before he could finish, Blake grabbed his hand and pulled him up effortlessly. Though they were the same height, Blake always felt larger than life. So unfair, Damien thought, a little jealous.
Blake grinned. "C'mon. Dad and Mom are waiting." As they walked, Damien studied him. Something was off. Familiar—but wrong, like a dream wearing a mask. The wooden cabin by the river came into view. It was weathered, simple, and small, but it felt like home. Inside, everything was as Damien remembered: polished wooden floors, a cozy couch, and granite kitchen counters. His family waited in the dining room. His mother smiled at him—raven-black hair glowing in the light. She wasn't striking like Mrs. Sharp, but to Damien, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. His father, with sharp eyes and short blonde hair, looked like a killer—but his expression softened when he saw Damien. Everything felt perfect. Then something cracked.
Damien glanced down at a photo frame in his hands—his family. A thin fracture ran through the glass. His chest tightened, but he shook it off and walked to the table. He sat beside his mother. Spaghetti and meatballs—his favorite. "Why are you crying, Damien?" she asked gently. Damien blinked. Tears streamed down his cheeks. "Am I?" He wiped at them, but they wouldn't stop.
Blake laughed. "You're such a weirdo." "Oh, leave the boy alone," their mother scolded, swatting Blake's arm before turning back to Damien. "How was your day, sweetheart?" Damien opened his mouth, but— The lights flickered. He froze. His father leaned forward. "Tell us, son. How was your day?" His voice held something—deep sorrow. "It was good… I think I enjoyed it," Damien replied, unsure. His father smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm glad. It's not every day we get to spend time together."
Damien frowned. "What do you mean? We live together." His father's smile faded. "Do we?" A chill ran through Damien. Trying to shake it off, he took a bite of food. But his mouth filled with ash and metal instead of a familiar flavor. He gagged, spitting it out. The room went dark. Damien's breath caught in his throat. The warmth of the cabin, the love on their faces—all of it vanished in an instant. Then—A scream tore through the silence. High-pitched. Raw. It echoed in his ears, bouncing endlessly through his skull.
Damien leaped from his chair and ran outside. The sky had turned black. Not like night—more like ink poured across the heavens. The sun was gone. No stars. Just a blank, suffocating void. The river glowed a deep, sickening red. His mother's body floated in the center; limbs splayed unnaturally, her dress blooming like a wilted flower around her. Her once-bright eyes stared lifelessly at the sky, mouth parted as if caught in mid-scream. Damien stumbled back, bile rising in his throat. Then another scream came from the trees, this time. He ran toward it, the ground turning brittle beneath his feet. Grass withered into ash. Once green and full of life, trees were now gray husks—bark cracked and rotting, leaves fluttering down like flakes of burnt paper.
A body hung from a branch ahead. His father. Neck twisted. Arms limp. Blood pooled at his feet, soaking into the earth like spilled ink. His eyes were still open, wide with confusion or maybe betrayal. Damien fell to his knees. His heart beat wildly, a caged animal fighting to escape. His breath came in short, broken gasps. He punched the tree. Once. Twice. "Why…" he whispered, knuckles bleeding. "Why is this happening?"
Then—Another scream. Back in the field. No. Not him. Please, not him. Damien sprinted. Branches tore at his skin. The wind howled, screaming along with him. The daffodils came into view—but they were no longer white. Every petal was stained crimson, sagging under the weight of blood. The scent of rot clung to the air. In the center lay Blake. Eyes closed. Face peaceful. But a gaping hole had been torn into his chest. Blood oozed from the wound, pooling beneath him and soaking into the flowers.
"No!" Damien dropped beside him, grabbing his hand—it was ice cold. "Wake up! Please, wake up!" He shook Blake's body, tears falling freely now, mixing with the blood. "Don't do this. You said we'd go home together. You promised…" Silence answered him. The world felt still. Then—A shadow stretched across the field. A presence—ancient, cold, heavy—descended like fog.
Damien turned slowly. A figure stood among the daffodils. Draped in a black cloak, its form was impossibly tall. It held a massive, rusted scythe that scraped the ground as it walked. Its face was hidden, swallowed by a hood that revealed nothing—only an abyss more bottomless than night. The air grew colder with every step it took, and the sky darkened further as if the stars themselves had fled. Damien tried to speak, to run—but his body wouldn't move. His limbs were lead. His voice choked in his throat.
The figure raised its hand. Skeletal. Pale. Fingers like ivory knives. It gripped Damien's neck with inhuman strength, lifting him off the ground. Ice spread through his veins, his breath caught, and his lungs screamed for air. "Get off—" he choked, clawing at the bony hand. His vision blurred. Black crept in from the edges. The scythe gleamed in the lightless sky. It swung. He felt the cold of steel split his flesh. He screamed—
Damien woke up with a gasp, his heart pounding in his chest. The remnants of the nightmare clung to him like a second skin, lingering in the corners of his mind. "Just a nightmare," he muttered under his breath, exhaling shakily as he pressed a palm against his damp forehead. The cold sweat still clung to his skin, his breathing erratic.
Relief washed over him like a fleeting wave, but it was quickly ripped away, leaving nothing but dread in its wake. It wasn't just a nightmare. It was real. His father—hanging lifeless from a tree, his face frozen in a look of eternal shock—had been killed by monsters. His brother, Blake, lying in the dirt, a gaping hole torn through his chest, blood soaking into the earth. And his mother, drowning herself in the river, consumed by grief after losing them both.
A familiar tightness formed in his throat. No, no, not again. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't escape it. Damien barely made it to the bathroom before his stomach twisted violently, the images still burning in his mind. He clutched the sink as his body wrenched with force, vomiting everything inside him. His whole body trembled with the effort, his mind hazy and disoriented. When it finally stopped, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gasping for air, trying to calm his racing heart.
"You'd think I'd be used to this by now," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely above a croak. Nightmare number eighty-six. They always played out differently, shifting and contorting like a terrible game. Sometimes the deaths came slowly, agonizingly drawn out. Sometimes, he got to hold them before they slipped away, their warmth fading. But no matter how they unfolded, the ending was always the same—his family, gone, leaving him to face death alone. And then, like clockwork, he'd wake up and vomit, only to find the world hadn't changed.
The hot water from the shower did little to wash the memories away. They clung to him, sinking into his skin like the grime he scrubbed off. By the time he stepped out, still drenched in the fog of the nightmare, he heard the faint hum of conversation from the kitchen. Luka and Mrs. Sharp were talking, their voices drifting through the walls.
"Morning already?" Damien muttered, rubbing his temples as exhaustion threatened to drag him back under.
Pushing the weight of the nightmare aside, he forced on a warm, easygoing smile—the kind that hid everything beneath it, tucked it away so no one would see the cracks.
"Morning," he greeted, stepping into the kitchen with an air of casualness he didn't quite feel.
Mrs. Sharp, as stunning as ever, turned to him with a soft smile, her beauty untouched by the morning hour. "Breakfast will be ready in a few."
Damien couldn't help but let his gaze linger on her, his heart doing an odd little flip. Damn, how is she this gorgeous? He cleared his throat and grinned, hoping the flush in his cheeks didn't show. "Thank you, I can't wait."
Thud.
A fist slammed into his arm with a sharp smack. "Stop staring at her like that, doofus," Luka muttered, rolling his eyes with that familiar cocky grin of his.
Damien smirked, rubbing the sore spot with a wince. "What? I think she likes it."
Luka snorted, the rare sound of genuine amusement escaping him. "In your dreams."
Breakfast was far from simple. Mrs. Sharp had gone all out for their last morning here, piling Damien's plate high with fluffy pancakes, crispy bacon, and golden hashbrowns that crackled with the promise of perfection.
One bite, and Damien nearly melted into his seat. The pancakes were soft, the butter almost creamy as it melted in his mouth, and the bacon—perfectly crisp, just the way he liked it. But the real surprise? The hashbrowns. He'd never had them before, but after one bite, he was already reaching for seconds, completely hooked.
Mrs. Sharp, who had picked up on Damien's bottomless appetite over the past two weeks, watched him with a knowing smile, amusement twinkling in her eyes, but never saying a word.
After finishing his meal, Damien pushed back from the table, feeling a little more human despite the nightmare still lingering at the back of his mind. He turned to Mrs. Sharp, his voice softer than usual, more genuine than he expected. "Thanks for everything. Seriously. I appreciate it."
She only smiled, ruffling his hair affectionately as if he were still a little kid.
With a quiet chuckle, Damien and Luka set off for the Academy. They walked side by side, the weight of the coming days pressing on their shoulders. Because after this week, nothing would ever be the same.