The car slowed to a crawl as Mrs. Valerie made a sharp turn off the main road, guiding it through a narrow back alley that barely seemed wide enough for a vehicle. Damon shifted in his seat, still feeling the ache where the bullets had pierced his ribs—though the wounds were long closed now. Jayla sat beside him, quiet and tense, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings as the car pulled up in front of a high concrete wall and a heavy iron gate.
The place didn't look like much from the outside—weathered walls stained by time, a half-faded sign hanging crooked on the fence that read "Private Property - Keep Out", and a gate that groaned loudly as it creaked open.
A woman stood behind it.
Short-cropped hair, messy and wild like she hadn't run a comb through it in days. A cigarette dangled from her lips, the smoke curling lazily around her face, and a half-empty can of beer was clutched in one hand. She looked out onto the street for a quick second, checking both directions like it was second nature, then stepped aside to let them in.
"Come on. Hurry your asses up," she muttered, dragging hard on her cigarette. Her voice was raspy, the kind that had seen too many late nights and too many burned-out mornings. "You're lucky no one was tailing you."
Valerie didn't say anything at first. She walked up and wrapped the woman in a tight hug, catching her off-guard but not unwelcome. The woman—Celine—patted her back a bit awkwardly, beer can still in hand.
"Still dramatic as hell, Val," Celine said, trying not to smile. "When you said it was bad, I didn't think 'exploding-house' bad."
Valerie exhaled shakily. "You have no idea."
Celine finally looked at Damon, then at Jayla. Her eyes lingered a bit longer on Damon. "So this is your kid," she said, taking a long drag of her cigarette, then nodding toward him. "Doesn't look immortal. Just looks... lost."
Damon blinked, unsure what to say, but nodded stiffly.
Celine raised an eyebrow, then turned to Jayla. "And who's the girl?"
Before Jayla could answer, Valerie stepped in. "She's with us. It's complicated. I'll explain inside."
Celine didn't press. "Fine."
She turned and pushed the gate closed with a loud clang, turning the key in the heavy padlock. Then she waved them forward, cigarette still perched between two fingers, and led them to the door. "Come in. Try not to trip on anything. I haven't cleaned in a week."
They stepped into the house, and Damon was hit by the smell immediately. The place was nice—unexpectedly so. Polished wooden floors, deep green walls with old paintings hanging at odd angles, an impressive bookshelf that stretched nearly to the ceiling—but it all reeked of cigarette smoke. Like years of it were soaked into the fabric of the curtains, the chairs, even the damn floorboards. It was like stepping into a giant ashtray with nice furniture.
Jayla coughed once, covering her nose. Damon didn't say anything, but his eyes watered slightly from the thick staleness of the air.
Celine tossed her half-finished beer can into a nearby bin and grabbed a new one from a mini fridge in the corner. She looked back at them, almost amused. "Well," she said, popping the tab open with a hiss, "make yourselves at home. This is gonna be fun."
Valerie looked over her shoulder at the kids, eyes tired but focused. "This is our safehouse... for now."
Celine then closed the heavy door behind them.
Damon sat on the comfortable couch, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room. The cigarette smoke clung to the air like a fog, but he'd already stopped noticing it. His mind was spinning too fast to focus on the little things. Jayla sat at the far end of the couch, knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them. Her eyes were wide, not blinking enough, like she was still waiting to wake up from some crazy nightmare.
Valerie had disappeared into the kitchen with Celine, but their muffled voices could still be heard through the half-open door—low, urgent tones laced with something heavy. Damon's ears were still ringing slightly from all the gunfire earlier, but it wasn't enough to miss the faint clink of glasses and the metallic slide of ammunition being checked.
He turned to Celine as she returned to the room, now without her cigarette but holding a small handheld radio that buzzed with a local news station.
"They're talking about it already," she said, setting it down on the dusty coffee table and twisting the knob until the voices came through more clearly.
"…early reports confirm a massive explosion occurred in a suburban neighborhood around 7:45 p.m. Police are investigating the possibilities of a gang war, unconfirmed witnesses claim they saw several armed individuals fleeing the scene. Death and casualties have been reported, but the house was completely destroyed…"
Damon ignored the news, his throat felt tight as he asked, "How did you even know I was… like this? My mom never told you anything. And she only found out when I—" he swallowed, "—when I died."
Celine let out a long breath and walked slowly to the armchair across from him. She flopped down with the weight of someone who'd seen too much and never got used to it. She propped her booted feet on the table and met his eyes without a trace of humor.
"I knew," she said simply.
Damon's eyebrows furrowed. "How?"
Celine tapped the side of her temple. "We see it. All of us. When a new one comes into the fold—when someone dies their first death and returns—every immortal out there feels it. Like a jolt through the spine. A vision. We see who it is, where they are, what they look like."
She pointed to Valerie, who was now leaning against the doorframe silently, arms crossed.
"That's why she ran out of her office like hell was behind her. She saw you. Dying. Bleeding. And coming back."
Damon blinked slowly, like his brain was trying to reset itself. "You're saying… that's how this works? You all get some kind of supernatural... vision?"
Celine shrugged. "Call it whatever you want. But it's how we've always known when a new one joins the cursed club."
Jayla's head slowly turned toward Celine, her lips slightly parted. She looked pale again, her earlier courage melting into pure disbelief.
"No," she whispered. "This is insane. You're all—no, this is too much."
Her voice cracked at the end, and she buried her face in her hands.
Celine glanced at her, not unkindly. "Yeah, sweetheart. I wish I was making it up too."