I jerk awake, heart pounding. The air is cold, and I'm lying on something soft, but the moment I open my eyes, confusion washes over me like a cold wave.

"Where the fuck am I?"

I don't recognize the ceiling. The wall's stone is painted baby blue, and what a shitty color, but I can't remember why I'd be here. I push myself up, my chest tight, my body feeling too light, too foreign. My hands reach out instinctively to steady myself, but the sensation is off. I'm not used to this body. I'm used to something bigger, stronger.

The memories hit me hard, crashing into my mind like a freight train.

Oh yeah. I'm Danny Fenton now. The realization burns, but not in a good way. I sit up quickly, suddenly nauseous as the memory of yesterday floods in—the violence, the bullet, the cold, endless blackness. It should have ended there. I should have been dead. But now I'm... here. In this kid's body.

I stare at my hands, the ones that don't belong to me. There's no calluses from training, no scars from old fights. No tattoos, no jewelry. Nothing familiar. I flex my fingers and feel their fragility.

This isn't me.

I want to scream, to throw something, to hit something. But I don't. Instead, I take a shaky breath, forcing myself to slow down. There's no use in freaking out. I can't change this. Danny Fenton is gone. I'm him now, for better or worse.

I look around the room again, searching for something that will make sense of this—anything to anchor me. But it's just a messy teenage room, the kind you'd see in any show or movie. It has nothing that resembles my old life. The only thing that feels real is the pounding in my chest and the wave of frustration rising in me.

I look down at my body wincing as I stretch, feeling every muscle strain as if they've never been used. I should be used to pain by now, but this is different. This body is smaller. Weaker. The muscles nonexistent.

I reach up to run my hand through my hair—short, I hadn't had short hair in years. I should have longer hair. I should have more. More muscle. More scars. More of me.

Instead, all I see is Danny Fenton. The stupid kid who probably never worked out a day in his life. The body I now have is soft and untrained. The kid never even thought to fight back against anything.

I shake my head, trying to clear the haze, but everything feels so foreign. There's a sharp pang of frustration in my chest, but I swallow it down.

The confusion still clings to me, but I know I have to do something. Laying here won't fix it.

I stand, knees wobbling beneath me, and head for the door. The sooner I leave this room, the better. But the minute I step forward, my legs threaten to buckle beneath me. This body feels wrong, like it doesn't even belong to me.

I stop and close my eyes, fighting the wave of dizziness that crashes into me. This is going to be harder than I thought.

I pull open the closet door, frustration building.

"Does this kid own anything but jeans and NASA shirts?" I mutter under my breath. Everything looks the same: casual, unremarkable. A bunch of clothes that scream "I don't care." I grab the first T-shirt I can find and a pair of shorts.

"Ugh. Guess this'll have to do."

I throw the clothes on quickly and head downstairs. The house feels quieter than I remember. Everything is too still. I shake it off. I don't have time to think about that. I need to move, to feel something that isn't frustration.

The hallway is lined with framed photos I don't recognize. A happy family, smiling at moments that mean nothing to me. I don't belong in them. I don't belong here. My footsteps are too light against the hardwood floor, my balance off, my muscles barely responding the way I expect. Every movement feels like I'm wearing a suit two sizes too small—tight in all the wrong places, suffocating in its strangeness.

I reach the top of the stairs and grip the banister, looking down at the dimly lit living room below. The house feels too still. No voices, no movement. Just the quiet hum of a refrigerator in the distance, the faint ticking of a clock somewhere out of sight. I take the stairs carefully, each step a test, my body sluggish, unsteady. The wooden steps creak under my weight, betraying my presence.

The living room is cluttered but lived-in—magazines tossed onto the coffee table, a blanket draped over the back of the couch like someone had just left it there. There's a massive contraption in the corner, all metal and tubing.

Nothing feels familiar. Nothing feels mine.

I close my eyes and push forward, my frustration mounting with every step. I reach the front door and pause, staring at my hand on the handle. It looks too small. Too pale. I clench my fingers into a fist before twisting the knob.

The second I step outside, the crisp morning air slams into me, fresh and sharp against my skin. It's a slap of reality, grounding me for just a second. The sky is still dim, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. The neighborhood is quiet—just rows of identical houses, trimmed lawns, and driveways leading into the kind of suburban normalcy that makes my skin itch.

I don't think—I move.

I push forward, feet hitting the pavement in a slow jog. My legs are heavy, uncooperative, fighting against me with every step. I'm used to feeling the power in my stride, the strength in my muscles. But this body? This body hates it.

The first few steps are fine. Then my breath starts to hitch. My legs burn in protest, the weight of this body dragging me down. I barely make it to the end of the street before I realize—

This is going to suck.

Danny's body is so out of shape. What did he do all day? Was he just sitting around, doing nothing? I keep going, pushing through the discomfort. My lungs are burning. My legs feel like lead. I'm barely a few blocks in, and I already want to stop. My body isn't my own, and it's like fighting against a weight that doesn't want to move.

"What the hell, Danny?" I mutter. "Did you never run a day in your life?"

But I keep going, forcing myself forward. I can feel the weakness, the lack of endurance in this body. It's not mine, but I have to make it mine. I have to. Danny didn't take care of it, but I will.

Each step feels harder than the last. My chest burns. My legs ache. It's like I'm moving through quicksand, my body fighting me at every turn. I clench my jaw, gritting through the discomfort. I can't stop. Not yet.

The street ahead looks so far, and it's only a few blocks. God, Danny's body is awful. How did he let himself get like this? My frustration only adds to the exhaustion that's building in my chest. Every breath is a struggle, and every step feels like an eternity.

By the time I make it back to the house, I'm barely standing. My legs are shaky, and I'm drenched in sweat. I don't remember feeling this weak before. I just want to collapse, but I force myself to keep moving.

The front door looms ahead, and I reach for the handle with trembling fingers. The second I push it open, warmth spills out, hitting me like a wall. The house isn't still anymore. The lights are on. Noise drifts up from the basement—clanging metal, the distinct buzz of machinery, and the occasional burst of muffled conversation. I briefly wonder what the fuck Jack and Maddie are doing down there at this hour, but I don't have the energy to care. The scent of coffee and something vaguely burnt lingers in the air, mixing with the hum of appliances, the faint flicker of the TV left on in the other room.

I drag myself past the kitchen, barely sparing a glance at the sink where dishes are stacked haphazardly, water still dripping from the faucet. Past the living room, where an empty mug sits abandoned on the coffee table, half-finished.

I reach the stairs and, for a moment, just stand there. The idea of climbing them feels exhausting, and the last thing I want to do is face more weakness. But I know I can't just stand here.

So I move. Barely. Every step feels like an titanic effort, like my legs are made of stone instead of muscle. This body is so fucking weak. I try to push through it, but the steps come too slowly. The burn in my legs is relentless, and I hate it. I hate how little control I have over this body, this weak, flimsy thing that can barely support itself.

Each step is an agonizing battle against the inevitable collapse.

"Fucking weak-ass body," I mutter under my breath.

My knees shake, and the stairs seem to stretch forever. I've fought harder battles than this—hell, I've walked away from worse. But this? This is torture. This is me, forced into a body that doesn't belong to me, one that's pathetic and out of shape.

By the time I reach the top of the stairs, my breath is labored. I want to collapse into the first chair I see, but I can't.

Instead, I push through and make my way to my room. I barely make it to the door when I hear someone behind me.

"Where were you?" Jazz's voice hits me before I can even think. Her tone is sharp, worried.

I turn to face her, and the concern in her eyes is impossible to ignore.

I shrug, trying to mask the frustration I'm feeling. "Went on a run."

Her eyes widen, and her hands fly up in exasperation. "You? You went on a run? You don't run, Danny! You also just got out of the hospital! Don't scare me like that again!"

I cut her off, desperate for a way to diffuse the tension before I snap at her. I pull her into a hug, wrapping my arms around her before she can keep scolding. The weight of her body against mine is a strange comfort, despite everything else.

"Ew, sweaty!" she protests, pushing me away, but there's a small smile on her face now, a softening in her eyes.

I sigh, rubbing my forehead. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

She hesitates for a moment, clearly still worried, but nods slowly. "Don't do that again, okay?"

I nod, forcing a grin. The exhaustion weighs on me, but I can't let it show. Not here, not now.

She looks at me for a moment longer, and I know she's watching for something—whether it's a hint of the old Danny, some sign that I'm still him. But I can't reassure her I am, because I'm not, I wonder how long it will take before she realizes that.

I leave her standing there in the hallway, slipping into my room.

I head into the attached bathroom, still feeling the weight of my frustration pressing down on me as I pull my sweaty clothes off and throw them in the corner. The door closes behind me, and for a moment, I just stand there, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

This body. It's so small. So weak. It's nothing like mine. I feel cramped in it, like I don't fit. My muscles ache from the run, but more than that, I'm exhausted from fighting against how alien it feels to be in Danny Fenton's skin.

I turn the shower on, the water running warm and steady. The sound fills the space around me, and I step inside, letting the hot water hit my skin. It's soothing at first, but it doesn't change how I feel. I stare at my hands as they move, washing the sweat and grime from the run away. I'm not used to this, to this softness.

This weak, small body is frustrating. I hate how it feels—how it doesn't respond to my commands like I expect it to. The breathlessness, the muscle fatigue—it's all so alien. I want to punch the walls. To scream. But that wouldn't help.

I miss Diana. I miss Hades. I think about my cats, the ones who rely on me, and it stings. It's like they're just a memory now. My life back home is slipping away the longer I stay in this body. And I don't know how to bring it all back.

I rinse my hair, fingers running through the short strands. My hair is way too short. A sharp pang of annoyance hits me. I'll need to grow it out. I don't know if I'll get used to this.

I sigh, stepping out of the shower, grabbing the towel to dry myself off. As I run it through my damp hair, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror again. I stop, staring at my reflection.

I look so damn young. So much younger than I ever expected. I'm probably only five foot six. Maybe five foot seven if I'm lucky. There's no facial hair, no stubble, not even a hint of a beard. Danny is so much smaller than me. He's a kid. A teenager.

I let the towel fall around my shoulders, examining myself in more detail. There's nothing familiar here, nothing that I recognize. No tattoos. No ink of the symbols and designs that were once so important to me—my tribute to my gods on my right arm. The Mandalorian skull on my left, a dedication to Star Wars from before the disney shit. The marks that meant something. Gone.

My chest tightens at the thought. I can feel the weight of it, the emptiness where they used to be.

This—this body is a blank slate.

I take a deep breath, turning away from the mirror. I don't want to dwell on it. I don't have time to dwell on it.

This will take getting used to.

I walk back into the bedroom, the towel still draped over my shoulders, hair still wet, and the weight of everything else pressing down on me. I can't change this. Not yet. But I'll adjust. I have to.

I finish drying my hair, still lost in the haze of frustration. The towel feels like it's weighed down by everything I'm struggling with. I throw it to the side, but before I can grab another shirt or make my next move, I hear the door burst open.

"Tucker! You didn't—" Sam's voice cuts off, and I turn to see both of them standing there. Tucker is practically half in the room already, grinning like an idiot, and Sam's standing in the doorway, looking absolutely mortified.

I freeze.

For a brief second, there's an awkward beat where neither of us says anything. Then Tucker—laughing his ass off—points right at me.

Sam's eyes practically bug out of her head, and before I can even react, she bolts out of the room, yelling "Sorry!" in the most panicked voice I've heard from anyone in years. I can hear her footsteps clattering down the hall.

Tucker, of course, is dying. The guy is laughing so hard that I'm sure he's about to cry.

"Dude, Sam's first time seeing a guy half-naked and she bails?" Tucker gasps out, holding his stomach. "I'm offended on your behalf, man."

I roll my eyes, trying not to make this more awkward than it already is. "Do you mind?" I say, rubbing the side of my temple, fighting the urge to punch him. "Seriously. Could've knocked."

Tucker raises his hands in mock surrender, still laughing. "Alright, alright. I'll go make sure Sam doesn't run home out of embarrassment. But man—" He laughs again before slapping me on the shoulder, "—that was priceless."

I'm left standing in the middle of the room, still naked, just trying to process what the hell just happened.

I just flashed a teenager.

I hear the sound of Tucker's footsteps echo down the hall, and I can't help but feel some relief. God, that was awkward. I mean, I know Sam and Danny get together in canon but still. She's fourteen, and I'm—well, not Danny Fenton.

I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. There's no point in dwelling on it now. I head over to the closet, muttering under my breath, "Does this kid own anything decent?"

The clothes are… disappointing. Just jeans, oversized T-shirts, a few plaid button-ups that look more like something a toddler would wear. I flick through the hangers, eyes scanning for something remotely decent.

Finally, I grab a red button-up and a pair of black dress pants. It's not much, but it's better than the rest of this crap. "Okay, this will do," I say, more to myself than anyone else.

As I start to change, I notice how loose everything is. The shirt doesn't fit the way it should, and the pants are too big around the waist. I have to roll them up a bit, but I don't care. It's just clothing. At least I'm not in a hospital gown anymore.

But then I reach for my knife.

My hand automatically goes to the spot where I'm used to having it, a stand right by where i get dressed. But there's nothing there.

A sharp pang of panic hits me in my gut.

I blink, my hand still hovering over the empty space. I try to ignore the growing unease and move to the desk, where I would normally keep my gun. I reach out instinctively, as if it's the next logical step. But there's nothing. No gun. No knife. No weapons.

It's so goddamn frustrating.

Realization hits me like a slap to the face. Danny is 14. He wouldn't have those.

The truth settles into my chest, and I suddenly feel exposed, vulnerable, like I've been stripped of something essential. Weapons are a part of me. They always have been. They're my tools, my security.

But not in Danny's world.

Danny can't carry weapons.

I swallow hard, trying to shake off the discomfort that settles deeper the more I think about it. It bothers me more than it should. I know I don't need them in the same way Danny doesn't. But I feel like something's missing, like a part of me has been ripped away.

I try to push the feeling aside and focus on the task at hand. I finish getting dressed, adjusting the clothes as best as I can. But the reality keeps creeping in—the weight of being trapped in someone else's skin.

I feel too light. Too soft. Too vulnerable. This body wasn't built for what I'm used to.

There's a moment of stillness before I let out a long breath, forcing myself to take control of the frustration bubbling inside me. I need to adjust. It's going to take time.

I glance in the mirror again, noticing how the shirt hangs awkwardly, how everything is a little off. But I try to force the discomfort down. I have no other choice.

I walk out of the room, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. I'll adjust to this—eventually.

And I'll eventually have all the weapons I need with his powers.

I walk downstairs, the faint thrum of my body's exhaustion still making every step feel like a battle. When I enter the living room, I find Sam curled up on the couch, her face buried in a book. She's trying to hide, I can tell. Her posture is stiff, as though she's trying to shrink into herself, and I don't blame her. This is all new to her too.

Tucker's standing nearby, talking to Jazz, though it's hard to make out what they're saying from here.

"So how's he doing?" I barely catch Tucker's voice, the question floating over the soft rustling of pages from Sam's book.

"He—" Jazz's voice cuts off, and she notices me standing in the doorway.

"Hi, Danny," she says quickly, her voice strained, like she's been holding something back.

I nod, offering a half-smile, feeling the weight of her gaze on me. I can feel her watching me, waiting for something. Maybe some sign that I'm still Danny or at least acting like him. But I'm not. I'm not Danny Fenton.

The words feel strange as I ask, "Where are Mom and Dad?"

Jazz sighs, the sound heavy with the kind of frustration you get from explaining something a hundred times. "Where do you think? The lab."

I raise an eyebrow, not sure if she's trying to keep me in the dark or if she just assumes I know.

She immediately flushes, realizing that I wouldn't know what she's talking about. "Right, sorry. You wouldn't know."

I can't help the frustration that rises in me. It's like I'm a stranger in this life, fumbling through someone else's memories. But I brush it off quickly. I need to keep moving forward. "I'm going out. Tell them for me."

She gives me a concerned look, her brow furrowing. "Are you sure you should be? You should still be resting, Danny. You've been through a lot."

I shake my head, forcing the words out, despite the lingering exhaustion in my muscles. "No. I need to walk around, get some air."

Jazz looks at me for a beat, unsure, but then nods, albeit hesitantly. "Okay… Just don't push yourself."

I don't wait for more. I head for the door, feeling the weight of her worry trailing behind me. Sam and Tucker follow, Sam still clutching her book like a shield, and Tucker doesn't say anything, though I feel his eyes on me as I walk.

"So, where to?" Sam asks, her voice softer than usual. I'm not sure if she's trying to make small talk or if she's just uncertain about what to say.

I shrug, glancing over my shoulder. "No clue. Just need to get out for a bit."

They fall in step behind me, and we step outside. The air is cooler than I expected, but it's refreshing. The world feels quieter now, as though everything around me is waiting for me to catch up.

I don't know where I'm going, but I know I can't stay in that house, in that room, in this life that doesn't feel mine. Not yet, anyway.

I take another step forward, and that's when I feel it.

It's like a cold rush, a pulse of energy that hits my chest and travels down my body, right to my foot. I feel the ground beneath me shift, but I don't have time to react. My foot sinks through the step like the ground isn't even there. The shock of it sends me off-balance, and I try to catch myself, but it's too late. My body goes with it, falling forward.

I try to tuck and roll instinctively, but Danny's body isn't mine. It's weaker, smaller, and I fumble, landing awkwardly on my shoulder. The air rushes out of my lungs in a sharp gasp, and I'm left lying on the ground, dazed and winded.

Tucker and Sam immediately dart to my side, their voices blending together in concern.

"DANNY!" they both shout, panic clear in their voices.

I don't move right away, just trying to catch my breath. The pain is sharp, but it's not enough to stop me. I push myself to sit up, still feeling the cold pulse of energy inside me. It's ghost powers, I realize with a small grin at the confirmation before it fades. I don't have control over them yet.

"Shit," I mutter, trying to stand but wincing as my legs feel like jelly.

Tucker crouches next to me, eyes wide with concern. "Dude, are you okay?"

I wave him off, still shaky but trying to keep my cool. "I'm fine."

Sam is staring at me, her eyes wide, worry etched across her face. "Danny... you sure... you just phased through the ground."

I pause, looking at her, then down at the sidewalk where my foot had disappeared.

I brush it off with a shrug. "Guess I did. Let's not talk about it." Not yet please, I don't know what to say yet.

I push myself up and, still a little unsteady, manage to stand. My legs shake, but I hold myself steady, forcing the power in my chest to calm down. This is going to take some getting used to.

Sam and Tucker exchange a look. Sam looks worried, but Tucker just raises an eyebrow.

"You sure you're good, man?" he asks.

I nod, brushing the dirt off my clothes. "Yeah. I'm fine."

The truth is, I'm not sure. I'm not sure about any of this. But I can't let them see that. I need to keep moving forward, even if my body isn't cooperating.

"You guys ready to go?" I ask, trying to shake off the awkwardness of the moment.

They both nod, but Sam looks hesitant, eyes still flicking to the spot where my foot had gone through the ground. "That was freaky, Danny," she says, voice quieter now. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," I say, forcing a grin. "Let's go. I'm good."

But as I walk, I can feel it—the pulse of energy in my chest, flickering like a warning. The power's still there, just waiting for me to figure it out. And it's going to take more than a fall to get me used to it.

We keep walking through Amity Park, the quiet murmur of the city wrapping around us as I try to process the pieces of Danny's life that Sam and Tucker are handing me.

Sam is still tucked away behind her book, her eyes flicking over the top to glance at me every now and then. Tucker's ahead, rattling on about school, Dash, and some of the drama that goes on in this town. I'm doing my best to listen, but it's hard to focus on anything when I feel like a complete outsider.

"So, Dash is a jerk?" I ask, trying to catch up with the conversation. The name is vaguely familiar, but I can't recall much beyond that. I'm pretty sure he's some kind of bully, but that's about it.

Tucker grins, probably not noticing how little I care. "Yeah, man. He's been giving you trouble since middle school. He's the quarterback—always picking on you, calling you out in front of everyone. But honestly? You usually just laugh it off."

I blink, then shrug. Bullying builds character. Not like it's a huge deal. But if Dash thinks he can keep running his mouth now that I'm Danny, then he's about to get a lesson in respect. The thought of breaking his nose crosses my mind, and I can't help but grin.

Let's see how Dash deals with getting punched in the nose.

Tucker keeps talking, but I'm only half-listening now, my mind swirling with the realization that I have to live this life now. Not just deal with the bullies but figure out all the little details that Danny left behind—the people, the friends, his routine. Hell, his whole life. I'll have to change it, it's mine now.

"Anyway, you'll be fine," Tucker says, like I haven't been paying attention. "You're smart. You'll figure it out." He grins at me. "You always do."

-DP-
-DP-
-DP-

We're walking through Amity Park when I see it—a small MMA gym wedged between a laundromat and a convenience store. The sign is bold, depicting fighters mid-action, and even from the street, I can hear the rhythmic thud of gloves hitting pads, the sharp grunts of sparring fighters. The moment I spot it, something clicks in my mind.

This is exactly what I need.

I stop in front of the gym, feet planting firmly on the pavement. The door is cracked open just enough for me to catch a glimpse inside—the scent of sweat and leather, the low murmur of trainers giving instructions. It calls to me.

"Now this is what I need," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

Sam's head jerks up from her book, brows furrowing. "Wait. What? Why are we stopping here?"

I don't answer. I move.

"Whoa, hold up." Tucker grabs my arm before I can push the door open, looking at me like I just suggested jumping off a bridge. "Dude, you barely survived a jog this morning according to Jazz, and now you wanna throw hands with trained fighters?"

"Yes," I answer without hesitation.

Sam snaps her book shut, eyes narrowing. "Danny, you lost your memories and now you're into MMA? Since when?"

"Since now." I cut her off and step inside.

They exchange a look. Sam gestures at me with a 'do you see what I'm dealing with?' motion. Tucker shrugs, still wary.

"Okay, but real talk," Tucker says, following me inside. "Is this, like… a midlife crisis? 'Cause you might be a little young for one."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not dying, Tucker. I just need this."

"But why?" Sam presses, stepping closer, studying me like she's trying to see through me. "You never cared about this before. You hate unnecessary workouts. You called gym class 'state-sanctioned torture,'.="

"Yeah," Tucker adds. "You used to fake injuries to get out of dodgeball. Now you wanna spar for fun?"

I exhale sharply, patience thinning. "I need to get stronger, alright? I can't—" I stop myself before I say too much, clenching my fists at my sides. "I just need to."

Silence.

Sam crosses her arms, clearly not convinced. Tucker still looks uncertain, but after a long pause, he sighs. "You're really serious about this, huh?"

"Completely."

He rubs his temples. "Alright, fine. I'll entertain this lunacy. But if you get knocked out in two seconds, I'm saying 'I told you so.'"

"Deal."

Sam groans. "Fine. Whatever. I'll sign up too—if only so I can be there when you inevitably get your ass handed to you."

I smirk. "Oh, you think I'm gonna lose?"

"Danny," she deadpans, "a stiff breeze could knock you over."

I ignore that and head to the front desk.

Behind the counter, a guy in his late thirties watches me with mild interest. He doesn't seem fazed by three teenagers walking into his gym—probably sees all kinds of people wander in off the street.

"Looking to sign up?" he asks.

"Yeah." I reach for my wallet without hesitation.

"We've got a basic membership—20 bucks a month. Gets you access to everything. Bag work, sparring, trainers."

I pay without a second thought. Lucky that Danny's parents gave him an allowance.

The guy hands me a card, and I turn to Sam and Tucker, grinning. "You guys feel like signing up?"

Sam arches an eyebrow but smiles slightly. "Sure, sounds fun. Plus, watching you try to fight should be entertaining."

Damn, how much of a wuss was Danny?

Tucker hesitates, looking at me, then at the gym, then back at me. "I dunno, man. I didn't think you were serious about this. You've been through a lot. You're—" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "You just woke up, dude. It's a lot."

I wave him off. "I'm serious. This is what I need."

Tucker shrugs, still unsure. "Well, if you're signing up, I guess I'll think about doing so." He scratches the back of his neck. "Maybe I'll try it out… but don't expect me to go all in, man. Not my thing, you know?"

I laugh. "Don't worry, Tucker. You'll get hooked."

He mutters something under his breath, I barely make out the word insane.

I step outside, the cool evening air brushing against my skin. I feel… different. Lighter, in a way. But something else lingers—the cold pulse in my chest.

It hasn't gone away.

It's still there, humming under the surface.

Waiting.

Sam and Tucker are walking behind me, the sounds of their footsteps faint against the quiet of the street. I can feel their eyes on me, even though they're not saying anything. Sam's probably worried, and Tucker... well, he's probably processing. Not a lot has happened today, but there's been enough for them to notice that something's off.

I don't look back at them right away. Instead, I let the street roll out in front of me, the city humming with its usual activity. But inside, I'm still thinking. Thinking about that power, that feeling deep in my chest. It's cold, alien, and still very much untamed.

I flex my hands again, the cold rush of energy pulsing through my fingers, and I can feel it, like it's waiting for me to tap into it, to make it do something. But I need privacy. I need to figure this out without anyone watching.

I turn to face Sam and Tucker, the thought solidifying in my mind. "Is there anywhere we can go that's private?" I ask, my voice steady, but the underlying urgency is there. I don't want to test this in front of them, not yet. I need space.

Tucker raises an eyebrow. "Private? Dude, we're walking down the street—" He stops when he sees the serious look on my face. "Oh... you mean, like, away from prying eyes, huh?"

Sam's eyes narrow, sensing something in my tone. "What are you talking about?" Her voice is cautious now, like she's preparing for whatever comes next.

I don't explain. Not yet. There's no need. I just nod. "Yeah. I don't want anyone seeing... this."

Tucker glances at Sam, then back at me, an almost knowing look in his eyes. "Alright, I think I know a place."

Sam still isn't convinced. "Danny, what's going on? You're acting... different. I mean, more than the amnesia thing. What are you—"

"I just need some space," I cut in, sharper than I mean to. But I was already tired of being questioned.

She hesitates, studying me, but finally nods. "Fine. Lead the way."

Tucker turns without another word, leading us through the quiet streets. The further we walk, the more the buildings change, shifting from neatly kept storefronts to abandoned structures, cracked pavement, and empty lots. The streetlights flicker, casting long, eerie shadows as we move deeper into the forgotten parts of town. Finally, we stop in front of a massive, four-story building, its stone walls worn and cracked with time. The upper windows are shattered, jagged glass still clinging to their frames, and ivy snakes up one side, burrowing into the crevices of the weathered stone. The old wooden doors are chained shut, rusted links holding them tight, but a side entrance sits slightly ajar, waiting.

Tucker stops just short of the entrance, his hands in his pockets, staring up at the building with something distant in his expression. "We used to come here all the time," he says, his voice softer now, tinged with something I can't quite place. Then, for a moment, he pauses. His shoulders shift, his fingers tighten in his pockets. He forces a smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes when he looks back at me. "I'm sure you'll remember eventually."

I don't say anything. I don't know how to. His words hang between us, heavier than they should be, pressing into my chest like I'm supposed to understand something that just isn't there.

Sam doesn't say anything either. She just glances between us, her frown deepening, before following as I step forward and push the side door open. The hinges groan, loud in the silence, and the scent of dust and damp stone rushes to meet me.

Inside, the air is thick, the space hollow and cavernous. The remnants of old furniture—rotting wooden desks, rusted metal filing cabinets—are scattered in the shadows, half-buried in debris. The ceiling stretches high above us, beams exposed where chunks of plaster have crumbled away. It's empty, forgotten.

Perfect.

I turn back to face them. Sam and Tucker stand just inside the doorway, their expressions laced with concern. They don't know what I'm about to do. They don't even know what's happening to me.

But they'll understand soon enough.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself, forcing the words out before I can second-guess them.

"Alright, this is it. I need to tell you something."

AN

Boy am I unsatisfied with this chapter but it was a needed transition