Chapter 55: Is she dead?

The room fell into a heavy silence once more.

Damon stayed where he was, staring down at Kate. He had known this girl all his life. Back then, things were simpler—pizza on weekends, late-night horror movies, and Kate nagging him about his grades like some miniature drill sergeant.

She had always been the steady one. Bright, relentless, honest to a fault. The kind of person who made people feel like they mattered, even when they didn’t. She was also the one who encouraged him when he wanted to play video games for a living.

They had grown apart when she started dating someone, and eventually just lost touch. In his last life, he had just assumed that she was busy with her own life to bother with him, but now that he knew the truth, it was hard to digest.

The past was full of things left unsaid, and seeing Kate like this only sharpened that ache. All the little things—missed calls, lazy responses, the unspoken words when she reached out—clawed at the back of his mind. She hadn’t abandoned him. She’d been fighting her own quiet war. And now she was trapped in it.

Damon let out a sigh. The faint whoosh of the ventilator, the steady beep of the heart monitor—those were the only signs that life still lingered in her fragile shell. It wasn’t fair. It never was. But he knew better than most: fairness had no place in this world.

With a decisive look on his face, Damon leaned down slightly, brushing her hair back from her forehead with a gentleness that surprised even him. "If there’s anything left in that stubborn brain of yours," he said softly, "then listen. I’m not letting this be the end. Not for you."

He pulled back and glanced at the machines once more. He then looked around to make sure no one else was there. Ideally, Damon would have preferred to wait some more time. At least until he evolved into a blood general or at least a blood acolyte, but he did not want to risk anything.

Kate could have already lost a lot of brain function. If he waited even more, then when she woke up, she would be a completely different person. There would be no point to anything. No. He had to make a decision now. He had to try something now.

He didn’t know if what he was about to do would help—or even work at all. But he had to give it a shot. He could tell Mark, explain everything, except that his friend was in no condition to understand anything. He did not want to bring up Mark’s hopes, and for the blood not to even work.

With a quiet breath, he rolled up his sleeve and bit into his wrist—not hard, but deep enough. The skin parted like paper, and dark crimson welled up, thick and glowing faintly under the fluorescent lights.

He held his wrist over her lips. "Please work. Please work," he muttered. "I’m all out of options. This has to work."

A single drop slid from his wound and touched her lips.

Nothing happened.

Damon’s jaw tightened. He leaned in closer, letting more of his blood trickle down—slow, careful, controlled. The blood ran over her mouth, across her tongue. Still, nothing.

"Come on," he hissed. "You’ve always been stubborn. Don’t let that be the thing that stops you now."

Then he did something he never thought he would: he pressed two fingers to her jaw and gently coaxed her mouth open. He let the blood flow in a little faster now, feeding her directly.

The moment the first swallow happened—reflexive, barely there—Damon’s breath hitched. Her throat pulsed. A flicker of something rippled across her closed eyelids, a tremor like the shadow of a dream. However, still nothing happened.

Damon continued to feed more blood, and then some more blood, and then a lot more blood. He straight up cut his wrist with his nail and let his hand bleed profusely into her mouth. He had been at this for 15 minutes when he finally had to give up.

Loud footsteps sounded outside, and Mark returned with another nurse. "I need to change the patient. Please leave and come back after 15 minutes." Thanks to his heightened senses, Damon had already cleared up all the evidence of what he had done.

He licked the wound closed with practiced ease, his regenerative powers already at work. The blood trail on Kate’s lips was gone. The bed sheets were neat. Her vitals—still stable, still painfully normal.

There was no sign that anything unnatural had taken place. No lingering scent, no strange aura. To the nurse and Mark, it would look like he’d done nothing but sit beside an old friend.

But inside, Damon’s mind was screaming. Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed at all. He had hoped that maybe because of his bloodline, maybe because of some special circumstance, a miracle would happen.

That Kate would stir, eyes flickering open, fully crimson. But reality remained unflinching. Cold. Silent. "Fuck it all." Damon silently punched the wall behind him in frustration. He then walked over to Mark to talk to him, but he did not notice the several hairline cracks that originated from his punch.

Damon stood beside him, his fists still clenched, with the sting of disappointment. Maybe today was a failure but he refused to accept this. Tomorrow he would come back and try again.

"I’ll come again tomorrow," He said quietly. "You need anything before I go?"

Mark shook his head. "Just... just keep visiting her, alright? She is in there. She is still in there."

"Yeah, she is in there." Damon replied, already halfway to the door. He gave a weak smile and turned around to leave, when suddenly the nurse started loudly calling for the doctor. A few other nurses and a couple of doctors rushed into Kate’s room, and before Damon could do anything, the door was shut on his face.

Mark’s face turned pale, and his entire figure trembled. "What is happening? Is she... is she dead?"

***

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