Chapter 3- Monarch
"What the fu—" Damon's voice broke off as the ring pulsed again, the sound caught in his throat, panic choking what words remained. It was cold one second, hot the next, the hum swelling inside the silence of his room, steady and alive, vibrating against his bones as if it were more than metal, more than memory.
He stumbled back, eyes wide, breath sharp, his chest rising and falling like he had just been struck. His hand clawed at the ring, twisting, pulling, shaking, desperate to tear it free with sheer force, as though strength alone could undo whatever curse had been placed on him.
It slipped loose.
The ring spun through the air, clinking across the table, rolling toward the open window with a sound that felt louder than it should have been. Damon lunged, his body stretching forward, his breath catching as the small band teetered on the edge, the night wind cutting against his face, cold and sharp, reminding him of how close the drop below really was.
He caught it — just in time.
And then he froze, staring down at the abyss beneath him, the city lights blurred into streaks of indifferent color. His voice came out low, bitter, almost broken. "I'd be dead if I fell… just like you always wanted."
The ring didn't feel cold anymore. It didn't feel magical. It felt ordinary, almost mocking in its simplicity. He slid it back onto his finger, his breathing slowing, his chest heavy, and the faint shimmer that had lit his room moments ago was gone, swallowed by darkness again.
Morning came too fast, dragging him into routine he no longer believed in. Traffic murmured outside his window, his father's door remained shut, and the silence of the house pressed against him like a weight. He brushed his teeth, threw on his black Southmere High uniform with the tie loose and shirt untucked, and when he looked in the mirror he almost looked fine, almost looked cool. But the mirror didn't lie. The ring glinted faintly, a reminder that nothing was normal.
Breakfast sat untouched. Hunger had left days ago. He walked to school with one strap of his bag slung lazily over his shoulder, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his posture casual but his mind heavy.
The club meeting dragged, voices blurring into background noise. By afternoon, he was in the gym helping Natsuki practice, rebounding shots and counting her scores.
"Fourteen threes in thirty minutes. New record," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, the closest thing to lightness he had managed in weeks.
She didn't answer. She drank water, her silence sharper than words.
"How's your dad doing?" she asked softly, her voice carrying the weight of concern she didn't want to admit.
"He's drunk," Damon replied flatly, bending to grab his bag.
Her eyes caught the scars across his arms, and her voice cut through the air. "Has he been hitting you?"
"Yeah… but I'm fine."
"You're not fine." Her tone sharpened, her eyes flashing. "You've been dull in class, eating lunch alone on the roof. I'm trying to help you."
"I said I'm fine."
"No." She stepped closer, her voice trembling with anger and hurt. "You don't get to give me attitude. It's been three months since the funeral, Damon. I've been there — even while losing someone too."
His breath caught, tears welling up despite himself. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly.
"My dad has Alzheimer's," she said, her voice breaking. "You'd have known if you'd been there… I'm your best friend."
"Natsuki, I'm so—"
"Don't bother." She swung her bag over her shoulder, her movements sharp, final. "You'd rather bury it than talk about it."
She walked off, leaving him standing in the gym, staring at the floor, guilt pressing heavy against his chest like a weight he couldn't lift.
By evening, he reached the Monster Note Memorabilia Auction early. He still thought the name was dumb, but the rows of chairs, the makeshift stage, and the faded posters gave the place a strange kind of gravity.
A man in his thirties, clean suit and slick hair, walked up. "You're the one Natsuki's mom talked about?"
"Yeah."
"Appreciate the help. Mind holding that ladder steady?"
Damon nodded, and they worked in quiet rhythm, moving boxes, fixing cables, the silence between them oddly comfortable.
Then—
Crash.
The top speaker broke loose, falling toward one of the helpers.
"Hey! HEY! Mr. Seijuru!"
Damon didn't think. He moved.
Feet pounding, weaving through crates and cables, the world blurring at the edges. He reached just in time, shoulder slamming the stand, both hands catching the falling speaker. His knees buckled, muscles screaming, but he held.
The man blinked, stunned. "Woah, kid, you just saved my life. How'd you get here so fast?"
"I was… nearby."
The man chuckled, shaking his head. "You look skinny but strong. Ever thought of joining the track team?"
"Not really."
"Well, if you ever need something, come find me."
The event went on — lights, voices, bidding — but Damon couldn't stop replaying it. That speed. That strength. It didn't feel human.
When it finally ended, the moon was high, hanging heavy in the sky. Damon looked up, his voice soft, almost reverent. "Mom loves the moon."
He raised his phone for a photo, then froze. She wasn't there anymore.
He took the long way home, hands deep in his pockets, his footsteps slow, heavy. Halfway there, he cut through an alley — a shortcut.
Bad idea.
Three guys waited, drunk and loud, their voices echoing off the walls.
"Yo, pretty boy," one slurred. "Thought you could skip out on us, huh?"
"Wrong guy," Damon said, trying to pass.
One grabbed his collar.
Fists followed — gut, face, ribs — laughter bouncing off concrete.
Pain. Noise. Then silence.
The ringing in his ears wasn't from the hits. It was from the ring.
It glowed again, brighter, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. The men didn't even see it.
Then—
BOOM.
A flash. One screamed, clutching his eye.
"You bastard!" another yelled, swinging a bottle.
But Damon was already moving, faster than thought, his body weaving left and right, every dodge leaving a faint afterimage, like a glitch in time.
He didn't understand it. But he liked it.
He struck back.
A punch that sounded like thunder.
Another that landed like steel.
Each hit sharper, faster, heavier, power roaring through his veins like fire.
One man hit the wall.
Another crashed through crates.
The last tumbled into a dumpster.
Silence again.
Damon stood there, panting, his hands trembling, his chest burning, alive in a way that terrified him. He stared at the shimmer fading from his hand. "…What the hell is happening to me?"
Then he heard it.
Engines. Laughter. Boots scraping asphalt.
Dozens of shadows in the distance.
He cracked his knuckles, eyes cold, his voice low and steady. "Alright…" he muttered, stepping forward. "…let's end this."