Willow rushed through the gate, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her eyes wide with panic as she dropped straight to Xander's side.
"Xander! Are you—are you okay?" she gasped, her hands hovering uncertainly over him.
Xander blinked, dazed and disoriented, his voice barely a whisper. "What… what happened?"
Willow snapped her head up toward Buffy. "What happened here?"
Buffy eyes remained locked on mine, heavy with accusation. "Damien Killd The zookeeper."
I wiped the crimson stain from the blade of my knife, my ribs screaming with every breath while the dark voice in the back of my mind hissed and celebrated. "Good, you did the right thing. You chose survival."
Around us, the other boys began to stir, groaning and clutching their aching heads against the harsh reality of waking up. Willow's hands shook as she gently helped Xander sit up.
Giles stepped over, steadying himself against a metal railing, his voice soft but firm. "They'll recover. The possession has ended. But the scars… they may linger."
Buffy closed the distance between us, her gaze hard and unyielding. "You didn't have to do it that way."
I met her glare head-on, my voice low and steady. "He wasn't going to stop. And I wasn't going to let him finish."
Silence hung heavy between us, broken only by the heavy, rhythmic pacing of the hyenas in the pit below.
"Finish?" Buffy snapped, anger flaring across her face. "I was handling the situation until you decided to murder a human being."
"He wasn't innocent," I replied flatly.
I could see in her expression that my answer only pushed her further away. She shot a sharp look at Giles. "You wanted me to train him and bring him in. Look what he did."
Giles lowered his head, saying nothing.
Giles's silence hit harder than Buffy's anger. He didn't defend me, didn't offer one of his usual explanations about ancient curses or the lesser of two evils. He simply took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if the weight of the night had suddenly aged him ten years.
Buffy looked back at me, her jaw clenched tight. "Slayers don't kill humans, Damien. That's the line. If we cross it, we're no better than the monsters we hunt."
"He fed Principal Flutie to those kids," I said, my voice cold and unyielding, gesturing toward the pit. "He was trying to turn half the school into killers. If I hadn't stopped him, who was next? Willow? Your mom?"
The air vanished from the enclosure.
Before I could even blink, Buffy moved. There was no Slayer restraint in it—just raw, blinding fury. Her palm cracked across my face with enough force to snap my head to the side, the sting blooming hot and sharp across my cheek.
The sound echoed off the concrete walls like a gunshot. Willow gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, while Giles took an involuntary step forward before freezing.
I stood there, tasting copper as my tongue pressed against the inside of my cheek, slowly turning my head back to face her.
"Keep my mother's name out of your mouth," she said, her voice trembling with a lethal, quiet intensity. "You don't know me. You don't know my family, and you don't know what I've sacrificed to keep them safe. You showed up in this town five minutes ago, waving a knife around."
She stepped closer, he face inches from mine.
"You don't get to lecture me about protecting the people I love," Buffy hissed. "And you don't get to use them as an excuse for having blood on your hands."
I clenched my jaw, swallowing the bitter lump in my throat.
"Let's go," Buffy said, turning her back on me completely, her voice once again clipped and cold. "Giles, help me get Xander to the car. We need to get out of here before the police arrive."
Giles hesitated for a fraction of a second, casting a grave, unreadable look in my direction before nodding and stepping forward to take Xander's other arm.
They walked away without another word, leaving me standing alone beside the empty enclosure.
I didn't move right away. I stood there in the dim light, listening to their footsteps fade into the dark while the heavy silence settled back over the exhibit. Slowly, the other dazed boys dragged themselves to their feet, stumbling out of the enclosure in confusion, terrified of the blood on the dirt and of me.
Only when the exhibit was completely empty did the shadow in my mind coil tighter, purring with dark satisfaction.
Look at them, it hissed, sliding across my thoughts like oil. They judge you while standing on the safety you bought them. The Slayer clings to her rules because she can afford to. You cannot.
"Shut up." I thought fiercely. "I didn't do it for you."
Of course you didn't, the voice murmured smoothly. You did it because you are waking up. And soon, you'll realize rules won't save your mother. Only power will.
My chest tightened at the mention of my mother. While I had been arguing ethics with the Slayer in a zoo, she was still lying in a sterile hospital bed with a vampire's mark on her neck.
By the time I finally turned away from the pit and pushed through the heavy iron gates of the zoo, the parking lot was completely empty. The Scooby Gang was gone. The possessed boys had scattered into the night.
Alone under the flickering streetlights, I adjusted the strap of my bag and started down the empty, shadowed road—heading straight toward Sunnydale Hospital.
The streets between the zoo and the hospital were dead silent, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of flickering streetlamps. My cheek still throbbed from Buffy's slap, a dull, persistent sting that matched the ache in my bruised ribs. Every step felt heavier than the last, the crimson knife pressing cold and solid against my back inside my backpack.
You're completely alone now, Damien, the shadow whispered, curling smoothly through my thoughts. No Slayer. No Watcher. Just you and the dark.
I kept my eyes fixed on the cracked pavement ahead, my jaw clenched. You said something back there at the zoo. You said I was 'waking up.' What the hell does that mean? What are you doing to me?
A low, amused chuckle echoed inside my skull, vibrating like smoke against my ribs. Aw, look at you, asking the big existential questions on an empty stomach. Should I get you a pamphlet, or do you prefer interpretive dance?
I'm not in the mood for jokes, I snapped silently, tightening my grip on my backpack straps. Answer me.
Doing to you? the voice purred, dripping with mock offense. Damien, I'm wounded. Truly. I haven't laid a single shadowy finger on you. All I've done is offer a little... career advice. You're the one who threw a grown man into a pit of hungry animals.
I did it to save them, I argued, though the words felt heavier than I wanted them to.
Keep telling yourself that, little warrior, the shadow teased lightly, dodging the question entirely. Besides, if I spoiled the surprise now, what would we talk about on our long, romantic walks through Sunnydale? Just keep walking. You've got a hospital visit to make.
Before I could press it further, I turned down a narrow side street—a shortcut that cut behind a row of shuttered storefronts—and a sound stopped me dead in my tracks.
A heavy, dragging scrape against brick.
I froze, my hand instinctively reaching back toward the zipper of my backpack where the crimson knife lay hidden.
Up ahead, half-swallowed by the shadows of an alleyway, a figure was moving. A man dressed entirely in black—a long, dark coat dragging against his boots—was stumbling down the sidewalk. He moved like a marionette with cut strings, his shoulder slamming heavily against the brick wall to keep himself upright.
His breathing was ragged, wet, and uneven, echoing harshly in the quiet street. One arm was pressed tightly against his ribs, dark liquid gleaming faintly between his gloved fingers under the distant streetlight.
He moved with the heavy, desperate exhaustion of someone bleeding out—or running from something far worse than the dark.
He paused, pressing his forehead against the cold brick, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Even from twenty feet away, I could feel an odd, heavy stillness radiating off him, like the air right before a thunderstorm breaks.
My pulse hammered against my ribs. After Darla, after the men in suits hunting Amber, after the zookeeper, every instinct screamed at me to turn around and keep walking.
Leave him, the voice in my head purred, suddenly sharp with cold curiosity. Or finish him. Weak things don't survive in this town.
I didn't move. My eyes locked onto the man in black as he slowly pushed himself off the wall, his head turning slightly in my direction—though his face remained hidden beneath the shadow of his coat's high collar.
The man slowly lifted his head, the shadows peeling back as the pale glow of the streetlamp caught his face.
He was striking in a sharp, haunted way—dark, tousled hair, high cheekbones, and skin so pale it almost looked like marble against the black of his coat. His eyes were dark and intense, clouded with pain, yet strangely steady. There was no yellow glare, no ridged brow, no monstrous hiss—just a man who looked like he'd been dragged through hell and barely made it out.
I didn't recognize him. He wasn't from the school, he wasn't one of the suited men from the alley, and he definitely wasn't part of Darla's pack. Just a stranger bleeding out in the dark.
Walk away, Damien, the voice in my head hissed, suddenly sharp and urgent. Don't touch him. You don't know what he is.
The man's dark eyes locked onto mine. His chest rose and fell in a shallow, rattling gasp, his grip tightening over the dark stain spreading across his ribs.
"Hey..." His voice was low, rough, and strained, barely carrying across the quiet street. "Please... I need help."
His knees buckled slightly, his shoulder scraping down the brick wall as he fought to stay upright.
Leave him, the shadow demanded, its tone losing all trace of humor. He's not your problem. Keep walking.
Ignoring the venomous hiss in my mind, I let go of my backpack zipper and stepped forward, closing the distance between us.
"Hold on," I said, my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart. "Don't move. I've got you."
I reached him just as his legs finally gave out, catching his weight before he could hit the concrete. He was freezing cold—far colder than anyone bleeding like that had any right to be—and solid as stone, nearly dragging me down with him before I braced my feet and slung his arm over my shoulders.
"Easy," I grunted, my bruised ribs flaring in protest under his dead weight. "What happened to you?"
He leaned heavily against me, his breathing ragged against my collar, his dark eyes flickering up to meet mine with a strange, guarded intensity. "Just... get me out of the street."
The night air hung thick and cold over the backstreets of Sunnydale, carrying the faint, briny scent of the distant ocean mixed with damp asphalt and dead leaves. Overhead, a pale crescent moon drifted behind ragged clouds, casting long, jagged shadows between the shuttered storefronts and empty alleyways.
I scanned the quiet street for headlights or sirens, my eyes catching the jagged silhouette of an old abandoned church tucked behind a row of overgrown oak trees at the far end of the block. Its steeple pierced the dark sky like a broken tooth, the stained-glass windows shattered and hollow, its heavy wooden doors hanging half off their hinges.
"This way," I muttered, adjusting my grip around his waist and half-dragging, half-carrying him toward the shadows of the courtyard. "The hospital's only a few blocks away, man. You're bleeding pretty bad."
"No hospitals," he grunted, his jaw clenching as we moved slowly down the cracked sidewalk.
The walk felt endless. Every step was a heavy, rhythmic shuffle—my boots scraping against gravel, his dragging beside mine. He was freezing cold, his solid weight pressing down on my bruised ribs with every yard we covered, though he fought hard to keep his own feet under him. The wind whistled softly through the overgrown weeds lining the church fence as we finally reached the courtyard, stumbling up the cracked stone steps together.
"I'll heal on my own," he rasped, his breath ragged against my collar as we paused at the threshold. "Just need to stay out of sight."
I frowned, kicking the heavy wooden door open and guiding him inside into the musty, cavernous dark.
Moonlight spilled through the gaps in the collapsed roof, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and rows of rotting, overturned pews. The smell of old incense, damp stone, and mildew filled the quiet space. I lowered him carefully onto the cold floor against the base of a stone pillar, his head leaning back with a heavy, exhausted sigh.
I crouched beside him, catching my breath, my eyes narrowing as I looked at the dark, soaked fabric over his ribs—and the unnatural pallor of his skin. "You're losing a lot of blood, man."
Angel's dark eyes flickered up to meet mine, a flash of guarded tension crossing his face before he masked it with a wince. He shifted his coat slightly, pulling the dark fabric tighter over the wound to hide it from view.
"It's not as bad as it looks, Happens a lot in this town if you're in the wrong place at the wrong time. A few hours of rest and I'll be fine."
Something about the way he said it—too calm, too practiced, combined with the ice-cold chill radiating off his skin—made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. My hand drifted subtly toward the strap of my backpack where the crimson knife sat waiting.
He's lying, the shadow in my mind purred softly, intrigued. Listen to him. Not a single heartbeat thundering in that chest. Interesting company you keep, Damien.
I didn't let my expression change, keeping my posture casual even as every muscle tensed. "Right. Wrong place, wrong time. I'm Damien, by the way."
He studied my face for a beat—taking in the bruise on my cheek, the dirt on my clothes, the sudden, guarded stillness in my shoulders. "Angel."
"Well, Angel, you look like you picked a fight with a woodchipper."
A faint, dry ghost of a smirk touched the corner of his mouth before fading back into pain. "Something like that. You look like you've had a rough night yourself."
I let out a short, humorless laugh, leaning back against the edge of a dusty pew—making sure to stay just out of arm's reach. "You have no idea."
Angel's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing the edge in my voice. "You're new to Sunnydale."
"That obvious?"
"You haven't learned how to pretend everything's normal yet," he said quietly. His gaze lingered on the red welt blooming across my cheekbone. "Though it looks like someone already gave you a welcome."
My hand instinctively drifted up toward my cheek, the sting of Buffy's slap flaring back to life. "Yeah. A blond girl with a serious attitude problem and a heavy right hand."
Angel went completely still. Even in the dim moonlight, I saw the sudden shift in his posture—the way his dark eyes sharpened instantly, pain momentarily forgotten.
"Buffy," he said. It wasn't a question.
I froze, squinting at him through the gloom, the suspicion in my chest tightening into a cold knot. "You know her?"
Angel looked away, staring toward the shattered stained glass at the front of the church, his expression tightening into something guarded and heavy. "We've... crossed paths. She's the Slayer. If you're smart, Damien, you'll stay out of her way."
"Trust me, I'm trying," I muttered, bitterness creeping into my voice. "She thinks she has all the answers. Thinks she gets to decide who lives, who dies, and how everyone else supposed to survive in this town."
Angel turned his head back toward me, his gaze intense and unreadable. "She carries a weight you can't imagine. Every night, she puts her life on the line for people who don't even know she exists."
"Yeah, well, tonight she judged me for doing what needed to be done," I snapped, my fists clenching on my knees. "She has her rules. Good for her. I don't have the luxury of playing by them."
Silence settled over the ruined church, heavy and cold, save for the wind whistling through the broken rafters.
Angel watched me for a long, quiet moment, as if looking straight past my anger to the dark, coiling thing sitting beneath it. "Be careful, Damien," he said softly, his voice dropping low. "In Sunnydale, once you start throwing away the rules... it gets hard to remember---"
"Spare me another lecture," I muttered, cutting him off before he could finish. My cheek still throbbed, and I had already taken enough moralizing from the Slayer for one night. I didn't need a philosophical speech from a stranger bleeding out in an abandoned church.
I shifted forward on the dusty pew, narrowing my eyes as I studied him in the pale moonlight. "How about we talk about you instead, Angel?"
Angel tilted his head slightly against the stone pillar, keeping his expression neutral. "There's not much to tell."
"Really? Because I just dragged a guy who feels like a block of ice out of a back alley, and now you're telling me you're going to 'heal on your own' from a wound that should have put you in an ambulance." I leaned in, resting my forearms on my knees, my hand inching closer to the strap of my backpack. "Who did this to you? And what are you?"
A faint, guarded flicker crossed his dark eyes, though his posture didn't budge. "I ran into trouble. Like I said, it happens in Sunnydale."
"Trouble," I repeated flatly. "Funny word for it. Most people who run into 'trouble' in this town end up in body bags. You're sitting here without a pulse—or close enough to it—acting like it's a minor inconvenience."
Angel let out a slow, measured breath, his gaze dropping to the floor for a beat before lifting back to mine. "You're observant. That can get you killed around here."
"Answer the question."
"I'm just someone trying to help," Angel said, his voice steady, smooth, and entirely evasive. "Sometimes that puts me in the path of things that don't like being stopped."
"Things," I pressed, refusing to let him slip away behind vague words. "Vampires? Demons? Because if you're working with them, you picked the wrong kid to pull you off the pavement."
"If I were working with them," Angel replied quietly, meeting my glare without flinching, "I wouldn't be bleeding on this floor. And you wouldn't still be breathing."
The words hung in the cold air between us, heavy and absolute. There was no threat in his tone—just a grim, exhausted certainty that made my grip tighten slightly on my backpack. He wasn't human. Every instinct I had—and the low, amused purr of the shadow in the back of my mind—screamed it at me. Yet he hadn't lunged, hadn't shown fangs, and spoke about Buffy like someone who wanted her alive.
"So you're one of the good guys," I said, my voice dripping with skepticism.
Angel's jaw tightened slightly, the faintest trace of old guilt surfacing behind his dark eyes before he buried it again. "I'm not a good guy, Damien. I'm just trying to make up for things I can't take back."
Silence stretched across the ruined sanctuary once more. For a second, the weight in his voice sounded uncomfortably familiar.
I looked down at the dark, soaked fabric pressed against his ribs, the moonlight catching the sheen of blood on his gloved fingers. Whatever he was, he hadn't walked away from that fight easily.
"Okay," I said, my voice dropping lower, the suspicion sharpening into focus. "If you're not working with them... who did this to you? Because whatever hit you didn't miss by much."
Angel shifted slightly against the stone pillar, a sharp, involuntary hiss escaping through his clenched teeth as pain flared across his side. His head tilted back, his dark hair falling across his forehead as his breathing grew noticeably heavier, more ragged.
"They're coming," he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, strained rasp. "The Master... he's tired of waiting. Tired of the Slayer getting in his way."
I frowned, leaning closer. "The Master? Who are you talking about?"
Angel's eyelids fluttered, fighting against the heavy pull of exhaustion and blood loss. His grip slackened slightly against his ribs, his words coming slower now, thick and heavy in the cold air.
"The Three," he breathed out, staring blindly toward the shattered stained glass above us. "Elite warriors. Ancient. Ruthless. They don't hunt like the others, Damien... they don't play games. When they come for Buffy, they won't stop until she's dead."
A cold prickle ran down the back of my neck. Three ancient killers unleashed on Sunnydale—and Buffy didn't even know they were coming.
Angel's chin dipped toward his chest, his eyes half-lidded as the darkness at the edges of the sanctuary seemed to close in around him. He let out a long, rattling breath, his voice barely more than a ghost of a whisper as consciousness began to slip through his fingers.
"She doesn't know," he muttered, slurring slightly as his head rolled against the cold stone. "Tell her... watch out for them. And watch out for..."
He paused, a bitter, haunted shadow crossing his pale face right before his eyes finally drifted shut.
"...Darla."
His head slumped forward, his chest rising and falling in a slow, shallow rhythm as he passed out cold on the sanctuary floor—leaving the name hanging in the air like a loaded gun.
Author's Note:
First off, I owe you all a massive apology! I know it's been six months since Episode Fifteen, and I'm so sorry for leaving you hanging on that cliffhanger for so long. Life got in the way, and the gap ended up way longer than I ever planned. Thank you so much to everyone who stuck around, kept this story in your library, and waited patiently for Damien's journey to continue—your support honestly means the world to me. I'm back now, and I'm going to do my best to update much more consistently moving forward. Hope you enjoy the chapter, and let me know what you think of that ending!