Breakfast was a quiet affair, until his mother set her fork down and looked at him and his father with that particular half-smile of hers—the one she used when she had good news but wasn't sure how it would land.
"The house we decided on," she said, voice bright though nervous, "the inspector's going in today. If it passes, escrow will start. In two weeks, we might finally be out of this hotel."
His father nodded in confirmation, already sipping his coffee like the matter was sealed. "We'll finally have something permanent again, son."
Ethan let the words hang there for a beat before answering. He forced a smile, warm enough to satisfy them. "That's great. Really."
Inside, his thoughts were sharper, more brittle. 'A home. Stability. For them, maybe. For me… just means another stage I'll have to navigate and eventually turn into a fortress so I can have some peace of mind.'
But he didn't let that show. He just nodded again, asked what street the house was on, and listened as they talked about paint colors and gardens, the kind of idle details families obsessed over. When his father laughed about finally having space for a grill, Ethan even joined in.
He made sure his smile didn't falter until he was on the bus.
Paige dropped into the seat beside him with the usual lack of ceremony, chewing on a stick of gum and launching straight into chatter. Her southern drawl made everything sound like gossip pulled from a country diner.
"So, Ethan, you goin' to the dance next month, or are you gonna sit in a corner lookin' all mysterious, makin' girls wonder if you're a vampire?"
Ethan arched a brow. "You sound like you've already planned the brochure for me."
She grinned. "You'd pull it off. Dark eyes, broody silence. You just need to work on your tragic backstory."
'If only you knew,' Ethan thought, but all he did was smirk faintly.
By the time the bus screeched to its stop, Amy had caught up with them, jogging across the sidewalk with her usual, slightly clumsy enthusiasm.
"I haven't seen you in forever," she said, falling into step with them. "It's like you vanished."
"Caught a bad cold," Ethan lied easily. "Better now."
She accepted it without question, shifting topics almost immediately. "So—dance next month. You going?"
Paige shot him a sly look, like she was waiting to see how he'd dodge this one.
Ethan just shrugged. "Maybe I'll be the one selling tickets at the door. That way I can say I was part of it without having to actually go."
Amy laughed, Paige rolled her eyes, and the conversation drifted to tests, teachers, and which seniors were already scheming promposals. Ethan listened, responded in places, but internally, he was elsewhere—running through contingencies for Oscorp, considering what steps to take next with Delilah, and mentally drafting when the crude preservation formula for Roughhouse's blood would wear off.
By lunch, he'd filled the margins of his math notes with numbers and coded annotations that had nothing to do with algebra.
As always, Paige tugged him along toward the hospital after the final bell. This time, Amy surprised him by asking if she could join.
"I haven't seen Rachel in a while," Amy admitted, a nervous crease in her brow. "I just… I think I can help too. Since I was also possessed by the demon."
Ethan weighed it for a second, then nodded. Peter must have suggested it. Good. The more she invests in her powers, the more useful she'll be to me when things get worse.
When they walked into Rachel's room, Ethan noted the change instantly. She still carried shadows in her eyes, but her posture was straighter, her voice steadier when she greeted them. Paige immediately swept her into a hug and launched into a flood of school gossip—who was failing history, who had tripped in the cafeteria.
Rachel even laughed at one of the stories, quiet but genuine. Ethan didn't miss it. Progress. He sat in the corner, watching, cataloging every micro-shift in her expression like data points on a chart.
For nearly half an hour, the girls chatted about normal things. Ethan let them. Sometimes normalcy was the best medicine.
It was Amy who broke the rhythm. She glanced at Rachel, thoughtful, then at Ethan. "I want to try something. If that's okay."
Rachel blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Just… trust me for a second."
She walked over, placed her palms gently on Rachel's temples, and closed her eyes. A soft white glow bloomed from Amy's hands, wrapping Rachel's face in gentle light.
Ethan sat forward immediately, every sense sharpening. The glow pulsed once, twice, like a heartbeat. Rachel let out a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing as if someone had cut a weight from her back.
Amy's glow dimmed, leaving Rachel calm and blinking like someone waking from a long nightmare.
Rachel touched her head, almost disbelieving. "It's like… the noise finally stopped."
Paige gasped and hugged her again, tears welling up.
Amy looked down at her glowing hands, then let the light fade. "I've been… reading. At Peter's suggestion. About Nut, the goddess I serve as an avatar for. The more I understand, the more… things open up. I didn't even know I could do this until a few days ago. It's like—like calming the minds of the living. And maybe the dead too."
Ethan watched the girls hug, his expression soft but unreadable.
Ethan kept his expression mild. Inside, his mind was already sprinting. 'Calming minds. Suppressing trauma. Maybe even altering memories if she pushes it far enough. Healing on the surface, but one step away from control. That power is dangerous. And useful. Too useful to ignore.'
Then he stepped forward.
"Try it on me."
Amy froze. "What? Ethan, no—you don't need this. You're… you."
He gave a faint, almost amused breath. "Even 'me' can be stressed. I want to understand what it feels like. If you're going to use this on people, you should know how it affects someone who's… stable."
Paige snorted. "Stable? You?"
Ethan gave her a side glance. "Emotionally stable."
Paige made a noise suggesting she did not agree with that assessment.
Amy still hesitated. She wrung her hands, eyes darting between Ethan and Rachel. "I don't know. I don't want to hurt you. I barely understand what I just did."
"You won't," Ethan said gently. "I trust you."
Those three words hit her like a warm gust of air. Her resolve melted.
"…Okay. Just—tell me if something feels wrong."
"Of course."
Ethan sat on the edge of the hospital bed. Amy stepped closer, palms trembling slightly as she raised them to his temples.
The moment her hands touched him—
light.
Not bright. Soft. Deep. Ancient.
And then—
the room vanished.
Inside Ethan's Mind
He stood in a hallway.
Not the clean lines of the hospital—no—
A cheap apartment.
Faded wallpaper. A light flickering overhead. A doormat with cartoon strawberries. A smell he hadn't let himself remember: laundry detergent, burnt toast… and fear.
Ethan's breath caught.
His body felt wrong. Smaller. Lighter. Closer to the floor.
A child's height.
"No…" he whispered.
A voice came from the kitchen. His mother's voice.
Not the woman he'd eaten with this morning. The other one. The first one. The one who never made it past his childhood.
She stepped out, apron on, exhaustion in her eyes… but there was warmth anyway.
She smiled at him.
"Sweetheart…?"
Ethan's throat tightened until he couldn't breathe.
She was glowing faintly, like the light Amy had used but gentler, wrapping her in a soft white halo. She knelt and opened her arms.
He didn't walk—
he stumbled,
collapsed into her chest,
hands gripping her shirt with tiny trembling fingers he no longer remembered having.
His body was small. His voice was a child's broken sob. He couldn't stop crying—years of nightmares leaking out at once.
She held him the way no one had in lifetimes. One hand on his back. One stroking his hair. Humming. Humming that tune she used when he'd fallen off his bike at five. The lullaby he'd carved out of his memory to survive.
He clung to her like the world was ending all over again.
And then—
darkness.
The lights overhead flickered. The hallway stretched, walls splitting like paper. A shadow crawled across the floor, thick and warped.
A figure stepped out.
His father.
Or something wearing his shape.
Twisted. Hulking. Eyes burning with that old familiar contempt, mouth curled into the snarl he used before the beatings began.
It lumbered toward them.
Ethan recoiled, curling into his mother, small and shaking.
But she only sighed—sad, tired—and kissed the top of his head.
"Everything will be okay," she whispered.
She stood.
The glow around her brightened—then flared into a blazing, divine white.
The monster-father roared, swinging an arm the size of a door.
She punched him.
One clean strike.
The creature fell backward, screaming without a mouth, dissolving into smoke and shards of memory. She looked at the fragments with disgust.
"Bastard."
She stepped back to Ethan—still a small child—kneeling as he wiped his tear-blurred eyes.
She took his hand.
A door appeared beside them, rimmed in warm light.
"Time to go, sweetheart."
Ethan shook his head, lip trembling. "I… I don't want to leave you again."
Her smile was heartbreak and pride all at once.
"You were never meant to stay here."
She opened the door.
Inside the glow, he saw his current parents—holding a baby blanket, laughing softly, pure warmth radiating from them. Safe. Solid. Real.
His past mother placed a hand on the middle of his back.
"Go where you're wanted. Where you're loved. That's your life now."
Her form began to dissolve into silver motes.
He tried to grab her wrist—but she pushed him, gentle as a breeze, through the doorway.
Light swallowed him whole.
Back in the Hospital Room
Ethan gasped and jerked back, nearly falling off the bed.
Amy yelped and caught him by the shoulders. "Ethan! Are you okay? I'm so sorry—I didn't mean for anything weird to happen—"
He stared straight ahead, chest rising and falling fast, eyes wet.
Not crying—
but dangerously close.
He forced air into his lungs, grounding himself on the sterile hospital smell, the beeping machine behind Rachel, the warmth of Amy's hands gripping him.
Finally, he blinked.
"…I'm fine."
Amy didn't look convinced. Paige didn't look convinced. Rachel was sitting up now, concern written all over her face.
Ethan swallowed, masking the tremor in his hands by shoving them into his pockets.
"That was… stronger than I expected."
Amy bit her lip. "I shouldn't have done it. I didn't know—"
"No," Ethan said quietly, voice steadying. "Don't apologize. You helped."
Something softer flickered through his expression—raw, vulnerable—then shut.
Locked away.
Hidden.
He straightened, offering Amy a small, warm smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You're incredible, Amy. Peter's on the right track. I believe you can really help a lot of people."
Her cheeks flushed in pride and embarrassment.
Ethan turned away so they wouldn't see the last traces of moisture in his eyes.
They left the hospital minutes later.
Paige talked.
Amy fussed over him.
Rachel waved from her bed.
Ethan walked beside them, quiet.
But inside, for the first time in two lives, a child version of himself was no longer screaming.
When they separated at the corner, Ethan turned toward the pharmacy—face composed, posture calm, plans waiting.
But his steps were a little lighter.
And his chest… hurt less.