Albus Dumbledore sits hunched over his desk, the peacock-feathered quill scratching softly against parchment as he pens yet another reply to Cornelius. His fingers move with practiced precision, looping elegant curves and meticulous flourishes, even as his forehead tightens with an insistent, throbbing ache. The Minister's latest letter is filled with its usual hemming and hawing, barely veiled requests for guidance masked as rhetorical questions. Dumbledore sighs, a low exhale that carries all the weight of his many decades. If he had truly wanted to deal with such tiresome political maneuvering, he would have taken the damn job himself.

His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes closing against the mounting pressure in his head. For a fleeting moment, he considers casting a Cheering Charm, just a small spell to lift the fog of fatigue and lighten his weary mind. But no. Those could become addictive, and he knows better than most the price of dependence—on anything. His thumb rubs the smooth surface of his half-moon spectacles as his mind wanders, drifting like smoke into memories better left untouched.

A soft, melodic trill pierces through his thoughts, bright and gentle, as if the very air is humming with warmth. Dumbledore's eyes open, and a soft smile plays at his lips as Fawkes sings once more, the phoenix's golden-red plumage shimmering with each musical note. The tension in his shoulders eases, the headache receding as warmth spreads through his body, chasing away the phantom aches of old wounds and ancient battles. He had never regretted the pact he made with the fae so long ago, though even now, the unseen threads of that bargain remained taut, woven into the fabric of his fate.

His fingers still against the desk as a thought flickers through his mind—forty-six years, this November. He had not sought her, not prayed for salvation, but in the moment when Grindelwald's power bolstered by the elder wand had eclipsed his own, she had come. Not as a gift, but as a deal struck in fire and blood, one he had accepted with no hesitation. The cost had been steep. He feels it still, in every quiet moment, in the silence of his quarters, in the absence of love and family. Fawkes had given him the strength to stop Grindelwald, but she had taken something in return, something beyond the physical.

For a moment, Dumbledore simply listens, letting himself relax into the soothing cadence of Fawkes's song. Despite being relatively young by wizarding standards, he feels the weight of his years. His body remembers every curse and counter-curse, every duel fought and every battle survived. The ghosts of pain linger, though dulled now by time and experience. Yet Fawkes's magic is more potent than any healing spell. He sits back, shoulders sinking into the worn leather of his chair, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.

His mind wanders, drifting to one of the few things that still brings him joy—new faces walking through the doors of Hogwarts, eyes wide with wonder as they see the Great Hall for the first time. The excitement, the innocence, the boundless curiosity. It is hope, pure and untainted, and it sustains him far more than the titles or accolades ever could.

He thinks of the students he'll soon welcome. Young Ronald Weasley comes to mind, another in the long line of Weasleys to grace the halls of Hogwarts. Dumbledore chuckles to himself, imagining the boy's freckled face and mop of red hair. Seven children. Really, Molly ought to start using protective potions.

His thoughts shift to Neville Longbottom, the shy, round-faced boy who hid behind his grandmother's robes when he met him three years ago, eyes wide with fear and wonder. Dumbledore remembers the child's trembling voice, the way his hands shook when offered a lemon drop. He hopes Hogwarts will help him find his courage as it has so many before him.

And then, inevitably, his mind drifts to Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The child left on a doorstep one cold November night, bundled against the chill with nothing but a letter and a warming charmed blanket. Dumbledore's heart tightens, a pang of guilt twisting deep within. It was the only choice, the safest option, he had too many enemies to raise the boy himself as he would have liked.

He remembers the few times he checked on him, always from a distance. Harry looked healthy enough, even vibrant, despite the perpetually oversized clothes. Once, he saw the boy wrestling with his cousin, limbs tangled as they rolled across the yard. A smile had tugged at Dumbledore's lips then, watching them scuffle and shout, hearing the laughter beneath the mock anger. Boys will be boys.

But the smile fades as another memory surfaces, one he would rather keep buried. A flash of auburn hair, a pair of angry blue eyes. His throat tightens, and he locks the memory away, shoving it back into the depths of his mind. Old wounds indeed. He makes a mental note to visit Aberforth. A drink and a heated argument might be just the thing to clear his head.

Dumbledore forces himself back to the present, fingers tapping restlessly against the parchment before him. Mrs. Figg's latest report assured him that Harry was in good health, albeit a bit lonely. Better lonely than dead, he thinks, the words bitter in his mind.

A soft hum draws his attention. One of the delicate silver instruments on his desk vibrates, its crystalline surface flickering with a faint glow. Dumbledore frowns, eyes narrowing as he watches it shudder, the light within growing erratic, frantic. He leans forward, the quill slipping from his fingers. And then, with a sound like shattering glass, the instrument explodes.

Shards of silver scatter across his desk, glimmering in the firelight as they rain down, delicate as snowflakes. But the implications are anything but delicate. His heart lurches, breath catching in his throat. That was the instrument monitoring the wards on Privet Drive. Wards woven with Lily Potter's last breath, fortified with blood and ancient magic. Wards meant to be unbreakable.

That instrument would only react if they were broken.

He is already on his feet, the chair skidding backward with a loud scrape. His hand grips his wand, the elder wood warm and familiar against his palm. His mind races, calculations and possibilities flashing through his thoughts at breakneck speed. If the wards are broken, then Privet Drive is vulnerable. And Harry...

He barely has time to form the thought before Fawkes trills, wings flaring as golden-red fire swirls around them both. Her magic wraps around him, searing heat and blinding light, and then the world shifts, twisting and folding as space and time bend to the will of ancient flame.

And as they vanish, Dumbledore reminds himself—as he has for nearly fifty years—that every choice has a price, and every debt must be paid.

-HP-
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- 30 MINUTES PREVIOUSLY-

Harry POV

I am awake before anyone else, lying on my thin mattress, staring at the spider-webbed crack in the ceiling. The sun barely filters through the small window, gray and weak, the kind of light that promises a dreary day. I hear Uncle Vernon's heavy footsteps on the stairs, the creak and groan of the wood under his weight. It's Sunday.

I know this before he even yells, "Up! Breakfast!"

Sundays are the worst. No school, nowhere to escape. Just a long day of pretending to be invisible. I pull on my too-big shirt, the fabric hanging off me like a curtain, and push my glasses up my nose. One lens is still cracked from the time Dudley threw a rock at me, saying he was "practicing his aim." Aunt Petunia said I should be grateful it wasn't a brick.

I shuffle down the stairs, stomach growling. The smell of bacon fills the kitchen, and I swallow the bitterness in my throat. Dudley is already there, his face shining with grease as he shovels food into his mouth. Aunt Petunia fusses over him, piling more on his plate, even as his chair groans in protest. I catch a glimpse of myself in the toaster's reflection, all elbows and knees, a mess of untidy black hair and hollow eyes.

I don't exist until Dudley's full, and I've learned not to mind. Much.

Uncle Vernon sits at the head of the table, looking pale, shadows under his eyes, but there's a grin stretching his face tight. He looks… pleased. Satisfied in a way that makes me wary. He picks up his newspaper, shaking it out with a flourish.

"No post on Sundays," he says, his voice dripping with smugness as he spreads marmalade across the headlines, "no damn letters today—"

The first letter strikes the back of his head with a sharp thwack, and he lets out a strangled yelp. For a second, no one moves. We all just stare as it flutters to the floor, a yellowed envelope with green ink and a red wax seal.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Letters burst from the chimney in a flurry, dozens—no, hundreds—of them, streaming out like a hailstorm, bouncing off the walls, the table, the floor. They move too fast to follow, spinning and twirling, paper bullets filling the room with chaos. I see my name on them, over and over, "Mr. H. Potter, The Cupboard under the Stairs," and my chest tightens with something sharp and aching.

I lunge, arms outstretched, fingers brushing the edge of a letter, but then Uncle Vernon's hands clamp around my waist, iron-tight. I twist and kick, but his grip is like steel.

"Out! OUT!" he bellows, his face purple, veins bulging at his temples.

I'm thrown into the hall, my shoulder slamming against the wall with a burst of pain. I barely have time to gasp before Aunt Petunia and Dudley come barreling past me, hands over their heads, eyes wide with terror. The door slams shut, the sound echoing through the house, and I hear the letters still streaming in, a steady torrent of noise.

Something inside me twists, a hot, churning sensation that curls tight in my gut. I want one. Just one. They're for me. I know they are.

I push myself to my feet, my legs trembling, and rush at the door. My fingers curl around the doorknob, but it won't turn. Locked. Of course it is. I beat my fists against the wood, a snarl tearing from my throat. It isn't fair. It isn't fair.

My vision blurs, the world around me dimming as the twisting feeling inside me grows sharper, hotter. It's like fire in my veins, pulsing with my heartbeat, each thud sending another wave of heat through me. I press my forehead against the door, the wood cold and rough against my skin, and the world shifts.

I'm not here anymore. I'm back in the schoolyard, three years ago.

It was Dudley's birthday. He and his gang cornered me behind the shed, their faces twisted with cruel delight. I can still feel the scrape of gravel beneath my hands, the sting of tears in my eyes as Piers held my arms behind my back, forcing me to my knees. Dudley's face looms over me, a sneer on his lips as he pulls back his fist. I remember the crack of pain, the way the world spun around me, and the taste of blood in my mouth.

Then it happened.

I heard a scream. Not mine. Piers'. His hands let go, and I fell forward, scraping my knees against the gravel. When I looked up, Piers was stumbling back, his eyes wide with terror. There was blood on his face, dripping from his nose, his lip split open. But no one had touched him.

Dudley looked at me like I was a monster, his face pale, his mouth hanging open. And then he ran, his gang scattering after him, tripping over each other in their haste to get away.

I sat there for a long time, staring at my hands. They were shaking, fingers curled into fists, and I knew—I knew—that I had done something. Something impossible. Something… wrong.

I learned to hide it after that. To push it down, deep inside, where no one could see. Where it couldn't hurt anyone. Where it couldn't hurt me.

But now, standing in the hallway, fists clenched and forehead pressed against the door, I feel it twisting inside me again, hotter and angrier than ever before. I don't want to hide it anymore. I don't want to be powerless anymore. I want—

The world explodes.

Red light fills my vision, searing and blinding, and I feel a snap, a tearing sensation, like something breaking loose inside me. I scream, or maybe I don't, because I can't hear anything over the roar, the thunderous noise of something huge and terrible crashing through the walls. There's pain, sharp and all-consuming, and then…

Blackness.

-HP-
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Arabella Figg POV

Arabella Figg shuffles through her kitchen, the linoleum cool beneath her bare feet. She clutches her teacup with both hands, the chipped porcelain warm and solid, grounding her against the early morning chill. She settles into her armchair by the window, her knees popping, and lets out a slow, contented sigh as she sets her crutches against the chair.

The neighborhood is still, the kind of quiet that clings to early Sundays. The sky is overcast, thick clouds pressing low against the roofs of Privet Drive. She takes a sip of tea, the chamomile and honey soothing her raw throat. It's been a rough week—Mr. Paws had another fit, knocking over her best vase, hopefully Dumbledore would fix it the next time he stopped by, and Mrs. Baldwin had tripped her 3 days ago causing her to fall and break her leg.

Her cats are unusually restless, pacing in tight circles, their tails flicking. Mr. Tibbles claws at the window, his back arched, a low hiss rumbling from his chest. Arabella frowns, setting her cup aside. "What's gotten into you, then?" she mutters, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders.

She peers out the window, squinting past the glass. The street is empty, no sign of movement. But something feels wrong. The air is too still, too heavy. She feels it pressing against her skin, a prickling unease that crawls along the back of her neck.

A gust of wind rattles the window, and the sky darkens, clouds swirling as if pulled by invisible strings. Her breath fogs the glass, and her pulse quickens, a slow thud-thud-thud in her ears.

Then, it hits.

The world outside shudders, a ripple passing through the air, bending light and warping shadows. The ground trembles, a low, bone-deep rumble that makes her teeth chatter. She watches, frozen, as a wave of darkness rushes down the street, swallowing the pavement and shattering windows.

It moves like a storm, a living hurricane, a churning mass of black smoke and shadow. Objects lift into the air, twisted by an unseen force, and explode into splinters and shards. She sees a car rise off the ground, hover for a moment, and then crumple in on itself, metal folding like paper.

Her teacup slips from her hands, shattering on the floor, but she doesn't notice. Her eyes are locked on the roiling mass as it sweeps over Number Four. The house crumples inward, walls splintering, the roof caving in with a deafening roar.

She sees the shadow twist, the edges of it curling, tendrils lashing out and smashing through windows. The blackness isn't solid—it ripples like smoke, but with weight, with power. Flashes of green light pulse within it, sickly and bright, like lightning in a storm cloud.

And then, for a heartbeat, she sees them. Two glowing eyes, green as fresh leaves, floating within the dark. They shine with an eerie luminescence, unfocused and wild, and they make her think of an animal caught in a trap, all panic and pain.

Her knees give out, and she drops to the floor, the cold tiles biting into her skin as her crutches fall down out of weak hands. She should move. She should try to run. But her body feels like stone, her limbs leaden, pinned down by the weight of that awful green gaze.

Screams cut through the air—shrill, panicked, and then abruptly silenced. She hears the crunch of glass, the groan of metal, the wet thud of… something. She doesn't look. She can't.

The shadow is moving again, flowing down the street, the green eyes disappearing back into the dark. Wherever it passes, destruction follows. Walls cave in, roofs are torn free, trees are ripped from the ground, their roots trailing dirt and debris.

Her house shakes, the window glass vibrating, hairline cracks spiderwebbing across the panes. Mr. Tibbles yowls, darting under the couch, his tail puffed out like a bottle brush. The air grows colder, a sharp, biting chill that settles into her bones.

Arabella's breath comes in short, ragged bursts, her vision swimming with black spots. She needs to get to the Floo. She needs to call for help. Dumbledore. She has to call Dumbledore.

With a strangled gasp, she pulls herself to her feet, her legs trembling. She stumbles down the hall, her fingers trailing along the wallpaper, leaving smudges of sweat and fear. The sitting room is just ahead, the hearthstone her only hope. She can picture the jar of Floo powder on the mantle, the dull gray ashes in the grate. If she can just—

The wall explodes inward.

A force slams into her, throwing her against the far wall. Pain blooms through her side, sharp and searing, and the world tilts, colors bleeding into shadows. The air is thick with dust and smoke, chunks of plaster raining down.

The Obscurus pushes into the room, a flood of darkness, tendrils of shadow slithering across the floor. They touch everything—curl around table legs, slither over broken glass, brush against her skin with a cold that burns.

Her skin prickles, and she screams as pain lances through her, a hot, electric shock that seizes her muscles. She convulses, her body arching, and then collapses in a heap, nerves singing with agony.

The dark cloud swirls around her, pressure building, making her ears pop, her skull throb. She feels the weight of it, a crushing, suffocating presence, like being buried alive. She tries to crawl, fingers scrabbling against the floor, but the shadow pulls at her, dragging her back.

Her vision narrows, the edges fraying, and the last thing she sees is a flash of green—a pair of eyes staring down at her, empty and ancient.

Then, nothing.

-HP-
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Dumbledore POV

With a burst of golden flame, the world solidifies around him, and Albus Dumbledore stands amidst ruin. His boots crunch over shattered brick and splintered wood, the acrid scent of smoke and dust heavy in the air. A bitter wind sweeps through the remnants of Privet Drive, the chill biting deep, carrying with it the echoes of screams that no longer exist.

Dumbledore's heart clenches as he takes in the devastation. Houses reduced to rubble, their walls blown apart as if a giant's fist had smashed them from the inside. The street is littered with debris—shattered glass, torn furniture, fragments of lives violently interrupted. Where Number Four once stood is only a crater, its edges scorched black, the ground twisted and broken.

A fine layer of ash coats everything, swirling in the cold wind, catching the pale morning light. There is no sign of life. No survivors. Only silence.

He swallows, his throat tight, his fingers clenching around his wand. He feels the lingering echo of magic, raw and wild, humming through the air, crawling along his skin. It is powerful—terrifyingly so—and yet… empty. Hollow. As if the force that caused this destruction was not entirely of this world.

He knows that feeling. He's felt it before.

But it cannot be. Not here. Not him.

His chest constricts, and he forces himself to move, his boots crunching over the rubble as he strides forward, his gaze sharp and searching. He sees the first of the rescue responders, faces pale, eyes wide with shock, stumbling through the wreckage.

One of them is kneeling amidst the rubble, his shoulders shaking, hands trembling as he digs through the debris. His hair is dusted with ash, his uniform streaked with dirt, his eyes wide and hollow. He doesn't seem to notice Dumbledore approaching, his hands scrabbling desperately at the broken stones, a low, keening noise slipping from his lips.

Dumbledore hesitates, a knot tightening in his gut. He knows what he must do, and yet he feels the weight of it, a heaviness that settles deep in his bones. To violate the sanctity of another's mind… it is not a choice he makes lightly. But he needs answers, and time is not on his side. The Ministry will be here soon, and they must not find Harry.

Forgive me, he thinks, his heart heavy as he raises his wand.

"Legilimens."

The world tilts, and he is pulled into the man's mind, into the chaos and horror that lingers just beneath the surface. Images flash before his eyes, vivid and brutal, the echoes of trauma still fresh, still bleeding.

The air is cold, biting, the wind howling through the shattered street. He sees the man standing in the middle of the road, his hands shaking as he clutches his flashlight, the beam bouncing over the ruined houses. There is a sound, a low, guttural roar, like a hurricane bearing down on them, and then—

Darkness.

A black mass tears down the street, fluid and shifting, its form constantly changing, twisting in on itself. It moves like a living shadow, a violent torrent of darkness that swirls and writhes, tendrils lashing out, smashing through walls and windows. Where it touches, matter disintegrates, stone crumbling to dust, wood splintering, metal warping.

The man screams, stumbling backward, his feet slipping on the cracked pavement. The darkness surges forward, flowing like water, its edges curling and boiling, glowing with flashes of sickly green light. It pulses, a heartbeat of raw, uncontrolled magic, and Dumbledore feels the cold radiating off it, so intense it burns.

He sees eyes within the darkness. Green, glowing, wild with pain and fury, the light flickering erratically, unfocused. The eyes are wide, unblinking, filled with a terror so deep it feels ancient, primal. They lock onto the man, freezing him in place, his legs buckling as he falls to his knees.

The darkness roars, a sound of anguish and rage, a hurricane of fury that shatters windows and levels walls. It is destruction incarnate, a force so powerful it defies nature, twisting the world around it into a nightmare of chaos and ruin.

And then, as suddenly as it came, it was gone. The darkness collapses inward, folding in on itself, the green eyes flickering out like dying stars. There is a burst of wind, a shockwave that flattens the rubble, and then only silence, heavy and suffocating.

Dumbledore reels back, his mind snapping back into his own body, his breath coming in harsh gasps. He feels cold, his skin prickling, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. The memory echoes in his thoughts, vivid and sharp, the image of those glowing green eyes seared into his mind.

No. No, it cannot be.

He has seen this before. Seen that darkness, that power, that rage. During the war, long ago, in a boy twisted by fear and pain, a boy with magic so powerful it broke him from the inside out.

Credence.

His stomach lurches, and his fingers tremble around his wand. An Obscurus. The Obscurus of a child so powerful, so tormented, that his own magic turned against him, transformed him into a force of pure destruction. A weapon of grief and pain.

Dumbledore's heart races, his thoughts tumbling over each other in a chaotic rush. No. Surely not. Not Harry.

He would have known. Arabella would have told him if Harry were being mistreated, if he were suffering enough to break like that. She would have seen the signs, the bruises, the fear. She would have warned him.

Wouldn't she?

His mind spirals, a sickening wave of guilt and doubt crashing over him. He had left Harry here. Left him to be raised by people who must have despised him, who feared him, who tried to stamp the magic out of him. And now… now this.

He feels cold, dread pooling in his stomach, tightening around his chest. If Harry has truly become an Obscurus, then he is in more danger than ever before. Not just from the world, but from himself.

There is no more time. He has to find the boy before the Ministry arrives, before they see this destruction and assume the worst. Before they decide that Harry is too dangerous to live.

Dumbledore turns sharply, his robes billowing out behind him as he strides through the ruins, his jaw set, his eyes blazing with purpose. Fawkes lets out a low trill, her wings spreading, golden fire flickering along her feathers.

Dumbledore places a hand on the phoenix's warm plumage, his fingers tightening in the scarlet feathers. He closes his eyes, focusing on the magic in Fawkes, syncing his magic to life and fire as it spreads across the shattered landscape before in the wreckage a mile away he feels a faint pulse of life and magic.

A burst of flame, heat and light enveloping them, and then they are gone.

-HP-
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-HP-

- EARTH -

My POV

I look down at the staff, my fingers brushing over the cool steel, and I can't help but grin. It's beautiful. Reckless, but beautiful all the same. I run my hand along its length, feeling the weight, the balance. The metal is cold and solid, real, and there's something immensely satisfying about that.

It took months to build, every piece fitted by hand, every wire soldered with meticulous precision. A labor of love. A test of willpower. A complete disregard for personal safety, if Zero and Myth are to be believed. But they've always been cautious, more concerned with staying alive than with creating something magnificent. And if I wasn't going to listen to them about going to the hospital when pissing blood I certainly wouldn't listen to them about this.

Me? I've never been afraid of a little risk.

I step back, holding the staff at arm's length, turning it slowly in the light. The base is a solid rod of steel, about five feet long, the top is capped with a wicked-looking spike, polished to a mirror shine, its point gleaming in the sun. Wrapped tightly around the spike is a coil of copper wire, glistening like the scales of a great wyrm.

Etched into the side are bronze lightning bolts, sharp and jagged, stamped into the metal with all my love. They catch the light, glinting with a bronze sheen, and I can almost imagine them crackling with electricity. I run my thumb over the grooves, tracing the pattern, feeling the ridges beneath my skin.

My Staff of Zeus.

I've wanted to build this thing since high school, ever since I first saw those stupid documentaries about Tesla coils. But back then, I didn't have the tools, the knowledge, or the sheer audacity to try. Now, though… now I have all three. And more importantly, I have something to prove.

Zero and Myth said I was suicidal. Said this was a death trap waiting to happen, a lawsuit and a funeral rolled into one. They may have a point. But that's never stopped me before. If it works, it won't matter. If it works, they'll be too busy picking their jaws off the floor to say "I told you so."

I can't stop grinning as I turn the staff over in my hands, checking the wiring one last time. It's simple, really. A metal spike, wrapped in copper wire, connected to a capacitor bank housed in the shaft. Press the button, and the spike launches forward, trailing the wire behind it, and when it hits… well, the idea is that the target gets hit with a surge of electricity powerful enough to make it look like a lightning bolt.

Sure, it's not real lightning. Not yet, anyway. But give me time.

I flick the safety switch, hearing the satisfying click as the capacitor charges, the faint hum of electricity vibrating through the metal. The wire tightens, wound perfectly around the spool, ready to be launched. I take a step back, squaring my shoulders, planting my feet.

I've set up a target in the backyard—a plywood board with a crude bullseye spray-painted on the front. It leans against the fence, looking so pitiful and defenseless that I almost feel sorry for it. Almost.

I lift the staff, pointing the spike at the target, feeling the weight of it settle into my grip. The balance is perfect, the shaft resting comfortably against my palm, the trigger button cool under my thumb.

For a moment, I imagine the look on Dave's face when I show up with this thing. He'll piss himself. I think I'll threaten him with it till he gives me his cousin's phone number.

I think about calling Adam, letting him know what I've built. He was the one who taught me how to wire a circuit, how to solder without burning my fingers off. Maybe I should let him see it first, let him be the one to freak out before the rest of my friends. But no… better to save it for MMA tonight. I'd tell him after class.

I take a deep breath, feeling my heart thud in my chest, the adrenaline singing in my veins. This is it. The moment of truth. Either it works, or I die in a very embarrassing way. Win-win, really.

My thumb presses down on the button.

There's a sharp crack, like the snap of a whip, and the spike shoots forward, the wire unfurling behind it with a hiss. It strikes the target dead center, embedding itself in the plywood with a satisfying thunk.

I feel a surge of triumph, a laugh bubbling up in my throat as I see the first spark dance along the wire, crackling like static electricity. It works. It actually works.

Then the world goes white.

Agony, hot and blinding, tears through me, setting every nerve on fire. I feel my muscles seize, locking tight, my jaw clamping down so hard I think my teeth might shatter. The staff jerks in my hands, vibrating violently, the metal scorching hot against my palms.

My vision blurs, spots of color dancing in the white void, and I hear a high-pitched ringing, a shrill whine that drills into my skull. The pain intensifies, waves of fire rolling through my body, and my knees buckle, the world tilting sideways.

I hit the ground hard, the impact jarring, my limbs twitching uncontrollably as the electricity surges through me, burning through my muscles, my veins, my bones. My mouth opens and I feel my teeth shatter, but no sound comes out, my throat locked tight, my lungs seizing.

I can't breathe. I can't think. There's only pain, raw and unrelenting, tearing me apart.

The world spins, white fading to black, my body going numb, the pain receding into cold nothingness. I feel myself falling, sinking into the void, the ground giving way beneath me.

And then, there's nothing.

AN

I do have a dirty P word under the name MandTeKad that is 1 free chapter and 5 paid chapters ahead