"Danger?..." Damon echoed, his voice barely a whisper.
Before he could begin to make sense of what she meant—before he could ask the obvious questions or demand answers—Valerie's eyes snapped toward the window. Her pupils narrowed like a hawk spotting prey. Her entire posture changed, shoulders tightening, jaw clenching.
"We're not alone," she muttered.
And then—
BOOM!
A deafening explosion shattered the quiet, a violent eruption that ripped through the side of the house like paper. Half the living room was obliterated in an instant—wood, concrete, furniture, all torn into splinters and dust. The blast wave threw both Damon and his mother across the room like rag dolls.
Damon hit the wall with a dull thud, the air knocked clean from his lungs. He collapsed to the floor, ears ringing, vision swimming in a haze of dust and smoke. His chest heaved, struggling to draw breath. His body screamed in confusion and fear. Everything around him was muffled, distant, like he was underwater.
He turned his head, blinking rapidly through the dust.
Then he saw her.
His mother, lying on the floor a few feet away. Her face—half of it—was burned raw, skin scorched, blood pouring down her temple. But she didn't scream. She didn't fall unconscious. She didn't even stop. With a sharp hiss of pain, she pushed herself up, her wounds already beginning to knit together right before his eyes.
It was grotesque… and awe-inspiring.
Damon was still dazed, barely able to move, but she was already in motion.
Valerie sprang to her feet, crossing the kitchen in a blur. She tore the rug off the tiled floor and flung open the trap door hidden beneath it. From it, she pulled two sleek black firearms and an ancient-looking sword wrapped in dark cloth and markings Damon didn't recognize.
She checked one of the guns with the speed of muscle memory and tossed the second one to Damon.
"Use it," she barked.
Damon caught it clumsily, barely holding on. His hands shook. He had never even touched a gun before.
She moved back to him in a second, crouched low, lifting him up to his feet by the shoulder. "You're going to have to fight, Damon. They're not here to talk."
Two men stormed into what was left of the house. All black tactical gear, faces hidden by helmets. No insignia. No warning.
Valerie didn't hesitate.
POP. POP.
Two clean shots—both men crumpled instantly, dead before they hit the ground.
Damon's mouth fell open.
There wasn't time to be afraid.
More followed. Heavy boots stomped through the hallway. Glass cracked under their weight.
Damon saw it in his mother's eyes—these were the enemies she had warned him about. These were the hunters.
And then she moved.
Valerie became something else entirely—something that wasn't just human. Her body weaved between enemies with fluid, terrifying precision. She slid, ducked, spun—firing and slicing with terrifying grace. The ancient sword tore through armor like cloth. Her gunshots were precise, merciless.
One man tried to tackle her—she twisted mid-air, slammed him into the wall, and shot him point-blank.
Damon stood frozen, the pistol shaking in his hands.
He watched as his mother—face still burned, still healing—tore through wave after wave like a storm. He was horrified… and utterly mesmerized.
In that moment, Damon knew—everything had changed. His mother wasn't just immortal.
She was a weapon.
And now… so was he.
The chaos hadn't ended.
Damon was still reeling, the scent of smoke and blood clinging to the air like a second skin. The gun felt heavier in his hand now, not just in weight, but in reality. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a delusion. This was his life now—bullets, blood, and the unshakable truth that he could die… and still wake up.
He heard footsteps behind him before he even saw the flash of movement. He turned—and too late. One of them came for him.
A sharp grunt escaped his lips as a boot collided with his side, sending him stumbling into a wall. The man raised a blade, its jagged edge glinting under the broken ceiling light.
But before it could touch Damon, a blur of fury erupted between them.
Valerie.
She slammed into the attacker with a guttural roar, driving her sword through his chest like it was paper. Blood sprayed across the walls. She ripped it free and turned, spinning to slice another who had tried to sneak up behind her son.
In seconds, they were both down.
Her chest heaved. Her face—though still healing—was set with a cold, unwavering rage.
"We need to move now," she barked.
Without waiting for a response, she dashed back to the open trapdoor and yanked out a duffel bag nearly as long as her torso. It hit the floor with a heavy clunk—stuffed with firearms, magazines, and weapons of every kind. Damon could barely keep up, barely think. Everything was moving too fast.
She grabbed him by the arm and yanked him toward the backdoor.
"Come on!"
The back of the house was torn, the yard a mess of scattered wood and debris. But their car still sat at the edge of the driveway, slightly charred and coated in ash, but miraculously intact. Only the windshield had cracked, along with one side window.
She shoved Damon into the passenger seat, throwing the bag of weapons in the back. She slammed the door and rounded the vehicle like a blur, hopping into the driver's seat. Her fingers twisted the key. The engine roared to life.
But they weren't alone.
Two more figures darted from the shadows before they could even back out. Gunfire erupted. Bullets smashed through the cracked windshield. The side mirror exploded. Sparks flew as metal was shredded. Damon gasped as searing pain ripped through his side. He looked down—blood was already soaking his shirt.
He'd been hit.
Twice.
"DAMON!" Valerie's voice was a mix of fury and panic.
Without hesitation, she leaned out her window, propping up an automatic rifle she had pulled from the front console. The weapon screamed as she unloaded into the street, riddling both attackers with precise, merciless fire. Their bodies dropped lifeless in seconds.
Breathing heavily, she dropped back into the seat, slamming the car into reverse.
"You're gonna be fine," she muttered. "You'll heal."
Damon gritted his teeth, nodding through the pain. It hurt like hell—but it was true. He could already feel the bullets beginning to work their way out of his body. Flesh knitting. Blood slowing. But the fear... the confusion... that remained.
As she prepared to slam the car into drive, her eyes caught movement in the rearview mirror. Damon turned his head, wincing from the pain, squinting through the shattered side glass.
And then he saw her.
"Wait—wait, Mom!"
"What?"
"There—behind the trash bins—look!"
His mother paused, following his gaze. And there she was.
Jayla.
Huddled behind an overturned bin, her hands clamped tightly over her ears. Her body shook as she cried, trembling in a mix of fear and disbelief. She looked lost, like the world had broken around her and she had no idea where to go. She had been watching the whole time.
Damon's chest clenched. He saw terror in her eyes, helplessness, heartbreak.
"Jayla…" he shouted, his voice cracking.