THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS VIOLENCE THAT MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR SOME READERS.
The nurse hesitated before speaking. Her voice trembled like it might break if she said it too loudly.
"…She's gone."
The fluorescent lights above him buzzed faintly, too bright and too cold. The words echoed through his skull. Soft, but merciless. Something inside him twisted.
'Gone? No. That's not right. I just spoke to her. Just... sat beside her bed.'
The world tilted, but only for him.
"Do you… need to call someone?" she asked, her tone careful
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
Her lips were still moving, but her voice was already fading to him. Drowned by the hum of her words in his head.
Everything sounded far away. His feet moved on their own. Each step felt heavier. Like the world didn't care he'd just lost someone he loved.
"Mom's gone...? How could— how could she die after saying that? Did she ever... love me?"
His own mind didn't realise his hand pushed the hospital doors open.
Outdoors. Past the corridor, into the cold again. It was like the city had no idea what had just happened. Cars honked as streetlights flickered. People laughed, talked, and argued. The world moved forward. And he was stuck.
He stared at the ring. It shimmered faintly in the low light. Just a glint, a flicker thin as dust. No one else seemed to notice. His hands didn't move. They just stayed at his sides, cold and still, while his body walked without him.
They brushed past him like the wind. He crossed the road without looking. A horn blared as the car swerved. Tires screeched against the asphalt.
"Watch where you're going, idiot!"
He didn't even flinch. The driver's voice was gone before it reached him.
Home smelled like dust and silence. He shut the door behind him — soft, deliberate. Took his shoes off and dropped his bag. No greeting. No warmth. The gift box still sat open on the table. He brushed past it and went to his room.
Some minutes passed. Maybe hours. Then the sound of keys. The door opened again.
His father. Richard.
His father stepped inside, still in his doctor's coat, taller than most, adjusting his glasses with a tired hand. His dark hair, almost the same shade as Damon's, was messy from a long shift. His green eyes looked dull behind the lenses.
"Hey… Happy birthday, kiddo," the man said.
No reply.
"You got the ring, right? Your mother asked me to give it to you when you turned seventeen."
Silence.
"Something wrong? You look—"
"Mom's… gone."
"Yeah, I know she went for her—"
"She's dead."
The man froze. For a moment, he was statue-like. "That's not funny," he said. "She's having her surgery today—"
"She's dead! I called you over and over! I even texted you! Even the hospital called you! I told you, we should have put her in the same one you worked at! You didn't listen! You never listen!" Damon snapped.
The man opened his phone and saw a couple of missed calls and texts. But he saw the ultimate text and his eyes widened while his heart clenched.
The words hit like shattering glass. His father's breath caught, and he covered his mouth with a shaking hand, breath breaking in his throat.
His knees hit the floor, and he stared blankly ahead. Nothing came out — no words, no tears. He stood quietly and walked upstairs.
Damon followed with his eyes. The only sound left was the creak of the steps, then the bedroom door closing. That night, the house felt colder than usual. The table downstairs was still empty. The hum of the fridge filled the air like static.
Shatter. Thud. Slam.
He went to check the source of these noises. Staring through a gap in the door.
Lamp, cracked. Files everywhere, a mess, just like everything else. His dad yelled. Crash went his mother's vase.
Damon didn't move. Didn't even blink. He just watched.
He showered. Brushed his teeth. Didn't eat and didn't sleep. Instead, tears soaked his pillow. His cries muffled into it, like it was the only thing he could turn to. The fabric grew damp beneath his cheek, warm against his cold skin.
Each time he thought of the happy times with his mother, the thought of her last words followed, like dark paint over sweet memories.
The night passed without sleep. Morning arrived, but nothing inside him moved with it.
Damon's father stood at his door while Damon stayed in his bed, as if it were the safest place. His father's tie was loose, his eyes hollow.
"You should go to school," he said quietly. "It's what she'd want."
Damon almost laughed, bitterly. 'She wouldn't have wanted me at all,' he thought.
The world was busy again. The wind was gentle, and the sky was grey. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, chasing whatever warmth he could find. One strap of his backpack slung lazily over his shoulder. Uniform untucked, tie crooked.
He looked good. The black uniform still fit his frame perfectly, but the person inside it seemed to have shrunk.
By the time he reached school, voices in random tones blurred.
He walked into class without remembering the walk there. His seat was exactly where it always was— the middle column, last row— but it felt unfamiliar, like he was sitting in someone else's life. He dropped his bag beside the desk and lowered himself into the chair, movements slow and automatic.
Natsuki's eyes brightened as she saw him from the door. She approached and sat beside him before the bell rang, her steps light but confident.
"D… how was yesterday? Your birthday?" she asked, sounding casual. She turned to him now. "You didn't reply to any of my texts. I figured you were having the time of your life or something."
He didn't answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the table, eyes unfocused, as if the grain in the wood was the only thing holding him together.
She tried again, softer this time. "We'd normally spend yesterday together with Daiki. I know he's not here, but I hoped we'd hang out." She paused, "Maybe we could still go out after school? You know… just us?"
No reaction.
"Damon?" she whispered, leaning closer.
He didn't even blink. It was like her voice couldn't reach him. She lifted her hand slightly, ready to tap his shoulder. The classroom door slid open.
"Alright, settle down," the teacher announced, stepping inside. "You've got your final exams in a few months. I don't want you thinking of it as next year, study as if they're tomorrow. Let's start with Biology, shall we?"
Natsuki lowered her hand with her eyes fixed on him. Damon didn't notice.
'What's up with him?' she thought.
The teacher talked as pens scratched, but he didn't hear a word.
A coldness slid down his spine, the same kind that clung to the hospital walls.
In his mind, a voice brushed the edge of his hearing. It was faint, warped, like it was underwater.
"…mistake…"
His breath hitched. The desk beneath his hands blurred.
"…never wanted…"
The chalkboard warped at the corners, bending like heat haze. His mother's face flashed — not fully, just the outline of her hollow eyes.
"…you ruined everything…"
The words didn't come in order. They didn't even sound like her anymore. Just broken shards of memory, cutting their way back in. His fingers curled against the desk.
"…regret… ever…"
"Vale!" the teacher called. "Answer the question."
He blinked. His eyes tried to find the topic, but he thought to himself.
'What subject is this...?'
The teacher's voice sounded like he'd heard it while underwater, distant and warped.
"Are you even listening?"
He stared at the chalkboard, then at his reflection in the window. The ring looked normal again. Still. Silent. Innocent.
He raised his hand. "Can I be excused?"
Natsuki, who sat beside him, noticed the darkness in his eyes, the way he moved his body, his presence yet also his absence.
The bathroom mirror reflected a ghost. Eyes red. Not tears, more like exhaustion. He sat in the stall, knees pulled in, silent. Every second stretched, like watching a pendulum clock in slow motion.
After school, the corridors emptied. He grabbed his bag, slipped outside, and sat beneath the red-leafed tree.
Natsuki found him there.
She stopped a few steps away, noticing the slump in his shoulders. "What's wrong, D? You were more than zoned out in class today. You didn't answer my texts either," she said softly.
He didn't move. Just sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the ground beneath him.
"What happened?" she asked.
He looked up at her slowly. "She's gone."
"Who's—" Her breath hitched. "Y–Your mom…?"
He nodded once. A tear dropped down his face. A slight break in his voice. Yet still hollow.
She sat beside him. Eyes wet. Hands trembling. When she hugged him, he didn't hug her back. Didn't even blink.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.
He waited a few seconds, then said quietly after wiping his face, "I have to go home."
"I'll come with you," she offered.
He shook his head. "No need."
The tone was flat. Empty. The faintest hint of something darker beneath it. He opened the door to see his father at the table. His tie was off, with an arm wrapped in a bandage. Empty bottles lined the counter.
His father looked up slowly. "This is your fault," he said quietly.
Damon froze. "What?"
"You know where her cancer came from...? You. Your cells stayed in her and—" His father opened his mouth, then stopped. His voice came out lower, slower.
Damon realised he knew what he meant, for a split second his mind travelled back to the quoted words on a classroom chalkboard: "FETAL MICROCHIMERISM." That made it worse.
"Her body… it… It turned against her. Because of you."
The words hit harder than the blow that followed. He didn't hit back. Didn't even speak. Just stared at the floor. The sting burned colder than pain.
There was a long silence. The room went still. His father's breathing grew uneven, his hand twitching at his side.
"YOU. KILLED. HER." Each word matched the beating that followed. The slap cracked through the room, sharp and hollow.
Damon's head turned slightly from the force. He didn't react otherwise. No step back. No retaliation. And then, only the shimmer. Soft and blue from the ring on his hand.
When the room finally stopped shaking around him, the house settled into a heavy silence, and in that silence, his feet found the stairs.
Before climbing the steps, he paused. Tears fell one by one, though his face stayed empty. He glanced at his father. He was drunk, distant, and somewhere far from here.
He walked upstairs, face expressionless. He closed the door and sat on his chair in the darkness. The ring's light pulsed faintly against the wall. Once. Twice.
He remembered the sting of the slap. The ring reacted.
The ring trembled. A low hum crawled up his arm, vibrating through his bone. Light bled through his fingers. Blue at first, then white, almost pulsing like a heartbeat. His reflection flickered in the dark monitor.
"What the fu—"