Richard's eyes fluttered open to the faint beeping of a heart monitor beside him. The sterile smell of antiseptic hit his nose instantly. The room was small but clean, painted in a dull off-white that made everything feel colder than it should. On his right, a tray with used medical gloves and an untouched water bottle sat next to a table cluttered with plastic wrappers. To his left, the wall held a mounted vitals monitor, displaying his heart rate, oxygen levels, and blood pressure in a steady rhythm. An IV tube ran down into his arm, dripping a clear solution from a bag hanging on a metal pole. A heart rate monitor was clipped to his finger, and a blood pressure cuff hung loosely around his bicep.
He looked down and saw he was wearing one of those hospital gowns — the loose, papery kind that barely kept anything covered. His legs felt weak, heavy, like bricks. His mouth was dry.
The door creaked open, and a nurse stepped in. She had a warm smile and held a tablet in her hand.
"Well, look who's finally up," she said. "How are you feeling?"
Richard rubbed his forehead. "I'm… alright. Just a headache. And kinda dizzy."
The nurse nodded and tapped a few things on the tablet. "That's expected. You've been out for a while. Let me get the doctor."
A few seconds later, a man in a white coat stepped in. He was tall, graying at the temples, with glasses slipping down his nose. He smiled softly at Richard and pulled out a small penlight.
"Let's take a quick look, alright? Follow the light with your eyes."
Richard obeyed as the doctor moved the light back and forth.
"Alright, pupils are reactive. Can you squeeze my hands?"
Richard did. The grip was weak but there.
"Good. Any numbness in your limbs?"
"No, just feels like I haven't moved in years."
"You've been unconscious for a bit. We'll get you back on your feet soon."
The doctor checked his vitals monitor, jotted a few notes, then nodded to the nurse. "Let him rest, but keep monitoring."
But rest wasn't happening just yet — because right then, Richard heard a flurry of footsteps thundering down the hallway. Voices, murmurs, and—
The door burst open.
In came his grandma, eyes red and puffy. She didn't say anything. She just rushed forward, wrapped her arms around Richard, and hugged him tightly, tears slipping down her face. Behind her came George, Max, and a few stiff-looking dudes in sharp black suits and dark shades. They looked like they walked straight out of a spy movie.
His grandma was already crying into his shoulder. "I thought I lost you," she choked. "You've been unconscious for five whole days."
"Wait—five days?!" Richard blinked. "What? I wasn't even that hurt! Max got stabbed in the chest and he's out here doing Marvel cameos already!"
Max raised an eyebrow. "Damn, okay. Coming for me first thing you wake up?"
George stepped in, arms crossed. "You've got weaker spiritual power than Max. Your body's still adapting to all this supernatural crap. You pushed yourself too far, Richard."
Richard groaned. "Figures."
He turned his head slightly and saw the TV mounted in the upper corner of the room, its volume low but visuals screaming headlines. A news reporter stood outside a gated house, a picture of a teenage girl displayed next to her.
"Breaking news," the anchor said. "The family of 17-year-old Emma, the latest known victim of the serial killer dubbed 'The Reaper,' is holding a public funeral this Saturday. Despite police refusal to release her body, the family insists on moving forward with the ceremony."
Richard squinted at the screen. "Emma…? Reaper? What the hell did I miss?"
Max and George glanced at each other. Max took a breath.
Max saw the look on Richard's face. The confusion. The subtle panic. So he stepped forward, voice low. "Look… In the five days you were out, the PTRD's been doing damage control. They're saying that Oliver, Marcus, and Emma were victims of a serial killer ring. One that's supposedly been active in Blackridge for years."
Richard blinked hard. "Wait—Marcus? Who's Marcus? And didn't the fake FBI guys say the killer of Oliver was already caught?"
George crossed his arms, sighing. "Marcus was the dried corpse case. A follower of Raven's cult, far as we can tell. But Raven killed him for reasons we don't fully understand. Drained all his blood and left him as a husk. The body was found dumped in the woods."
Richard just stared. His brain was spinning. "And Emma... I—" He grabbed the bedsheets, knuckles white. "She… She was your friend, wasn't she? Are you okay? "
Max hesitated.
And in that silence, a slow clap echoed from the back of the room.
Everyone turned.
A man with slicked blonde hair, dressed in a pristine white suit like he'd walked out of a 1940s mob flick, stepped inside. His shoes clicked on the floor, and the dark-suited agents around him stood straighter, saluting.
The man gave a charming smile and walked toward Richard with his hand extended. "Ah, so this is the young man I've been dying to meet."
Richard blinked. "Uh... hi?"
The man chuckled as he shook his hand. "Johnathan Heilbronn. Head of the PTRD's Blackridge unit. And let me say, Richard, it is truly a pleasure to finally see you awake. You're a bit of a celebrity around here."
Richard gave a confused laugh, unsure what to say.
Johnathan's smile didn't fade. "If you don't mind, I'd like to speak with Richard alone for a moment."
George frowned but nodded. "Come on, Max. Let's give them space." Max glanced at Richard before following the others out. Only the doctor lingered, standing near the vitals monitor.
"Sir," the doctor said, hesitant, "Richard just woke up. He may need medical supervision."
Johnathan's tone never shifted. Still calm. Still pleasant. "It'll be alright, doctor. Please."
The doctor looked unsure. But he nodded and stepped outside, shutting the door softly behind him.
Click.
Silence.
Then—
A hand slammed into the doctor's chest, shoving him hard against the hallway wall.
George grabbed the front of the doctor's coat, fire in his eyes. "I didn't approve of it, you fucking bastards."
The suits moved fast—two agents stepped in to pull George off—but Max stepped between them, raising a hand. "Don't."
The doctor coughed, adjusting his glasses, trying to stay calm. "We had reasons—"
"Bullshit!" George roared. "You messed with my grandson's head. Twisted his memories!"
The doctor looked down, blood now trickling from his nose. "Johnathan ordered it. Richard's fragile right now. He's been through too much. He's unstable, emotionally and spiritually. We needed to stabilize him."
George's fist tightened again.
"He's the only one who's fought Raven and survived," the doctor added quickly. "We need him functional. We need him strong. If he crumbles, we lose our best weapon."
George slammed his fist into the doctor's jaw. The man hit the wall and slid to the floor, dazed, blood dripping from his mouth.
Max raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Damn."
Richard's grandmother gasped, hands over her mouth, shocked. "George—!"
But George didn't stop. "You treat him like a weapon? He's a kid. He just killed someone he considered a friend. And now you make him forget her—replace her with fake memories?"
The doctor wheezed. "We didn't erase everything. Just... moved the grief. Made him think she was Max's friend. Easier to carry."
George stepped back, breathing hard. "You're monsters."
He turned to Max and his wife. "Get out of here. Go wait in the car."
"But—" Max started.
"Now."
Richard's grandma nodded, shaken. She grabbed Max's arm, and they left, leaving George staring down at the bleeding doctor, fists still clenched.
Inside the room, Johnathan smiled gently at Richard like nothing had happened.
"Now then," he said, voice smooth as silk. "Let's talk about your future. "
Jonathan sat across from Richard, legs crossed, fingers steepled together like he was about to pitch a million-dollar deal. His white suit practically glowed under the fluorescent lights, spotless and sharp-edged, like it was tailored from the heavens.
"You're lucky, you know," he said, voice smooth as silk. "Not just because you survived. But because the treatment you just got? It's the kind of thing even world leaders would struggle to afford."
Richard raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? So what's the damage? How much are we talkin'?"
"Oh, somewhere north of 3.5 million," Jonathan replied casually, like he was ordering coffee. "Specialist healers, enchantment-grade IVs, six-man spiritual containment squad around your room in case you went volatile… and a high-level barrier cast over the entire ward."
Richard blinked. "What the—seriously? I've been in a magical fortress this whole time?"
Jonathan grinned. "Exactly. And you didn't pay a dime. PTRD handled everything."
Richard leaned back slowly. "Okay... see, now I know there's a catch. Y'all don't just throw that kind of money around for charity."
"You're right. We don't." Jonathan's smile widened. "I didn't come here to guilt-trip you about expenses. I came to tell you that we see something in you. Something rare. And we're investing in it."
Richard crossed his arms. "Cut the corporate script, man. Just tell me what you want."
Jonathan's eyes locked onto his. The friendly air in the room tightened—just a little. Like the air got a few degrees colder.
"I want you to become stronger," he said. "Better. More precise. More lethal."
Richard narrowed his eyes. "Why? Why me?"
Jonathan stood up and began pacing slowly. "Your ability… we've never seen anything like it. Not even in the oldest classified PTRD scrolls. Flames that don't just burn—they erase. Like they're unmaking reality itself. That's not fire. That's conceptual disintegration."
"That's cool and all," Richard muttered, "except it also fries me."
"Yes," Jonathan said, turning to face him again. "Without the limiter, your body is consumed by your own flames. But that doesn't mean it has to stay that way."
Richard looked skeptical. "And you're saying you can fix that? Just like that?"
Jonathan smirked. "Not me. But I know someone who can. A specialist. Top of their class. Former Tier-1 exorcist turned ability trainer. They've worked with unstable wielders before. If anyone can help you control those flames without destroying yourself, it's them."
Richard paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. "…Why do you care so much?"
Jonathan gave a soft, almost melancholic chuckle. "Because we've seen what Raven is capable of. And what's coming next? It's worse. Much worse. We need weapons, Richard. Not soldiers. Not scouts. Weapons."
Richard's face went dark. "You mean people."
"I mean survivors," Jonathan said calmly. "You're one of the few who's faced Raven and lived. That already makes you valuable. But you're not just another fighter. You're a game-changer. You just don't know it yet."
Richard looked down at his hands. The bandages. The IV. The faint tingling in his fingers—like his body was still humming with leftover energy.
He clenched his fist.
"And if I say no?" he asked.
Jonathan paused at the door, his back to Richard. "Then we won't force you. You'll still get protection. But know this—Raven's not done. And the next time he shows up... if you're not ready... you will burn."
He turned his head slightly, just enough for Richard to see the glint in his eye.
"But if you say yes—we make sure the fire burns on your terms."
Richard swallowed hard.
The flames inside him whispered.
And he didn't know if they were warning him…
Or agreeing.