Damian's POV

"They say a déjà vu is something that has happened for one before, but what if, in the very moment, one is trying to send the memory forward—to one's own future self?"

—Damian Stark

Coughing violently, my chest heaves, cold sweat slicking every inch of me. My breath rattles, shallow and painful. No light greets me—only darkness, suffocating.

No air enters my body; it refuses to obey completely. I cannot move, cannot shift, as though I'm trapped in something unseen, a prison of flesh and stone. Panic grips me.

Trying to drag my hands across my chest, my hands search for the spot where the knife pierced me, to know if it had driven deep enough to reach my heart.

Another storm of coughing seizes me, each convulsion burning as if oil was poured down my throat, only to be followed by flames—my throat sears.

Trying desperately to scream, only a strangled hum tears free. "Hmmm!"

Saliva sprays from my lips, dripping down my chin, until the sound chokes me utterly.

Hey! is what I want to cry out, but nothing escapes, only the wet gargle of spit and blood; the darkness presses tighter, swallowing me whole.

It hurts. Gods, it hurts. Why am I still alive? Or am I already dead?

"Hmmm!" Another sound breaks from me, desperate but pitiful in exhalation. My heart pounds harder, each beat slamming against my ribs as if to break them. My tongue swells, choking me, pressing down my throat until even breath feels impossible.

No answer comes. No one responds. Every attempt, every effort, fails. My legs refuse to kick; my arms won't move. And trying to twist my body, to roll, to touch something familiar, nothing comes back at me. I might as well be buried alive.

My fingers twitch. My toes curl. Nothing else obeys.

My screams come ragged, not even an echo returning; they are muffled, and ache as pressure builds until everything tears as though my flesh and bones open from the inside.

Flash.

Light explodes across the room, suddenly. My skull rattles with the force of it, my eyes blinking faster than birds can move their wings. It isn't like before—this light bites, raw and invasive, searing through the dark.

Crying out, my eyes shut after watering and blinking too many times. Scarlet pulses behind my lids. "Huaaanm!" My voice breaks, and suddenly something loosens in my throat.

"Suuaanp!" The sound is guttural, half-formed. Saliva spills from my lips, splattering over my chest like a glass tipping half-full. Gagging, I cough, and finally words rasp through. "Stop it!"

Another cough tears free; blood splashes out, spraying across my chest in a mist, as if I were a cracked fountain.

Slap.

My head snaps sideways. Pain radiates down my neck as blood warms the corner of my mouth. My eyes sting, but I force them open—and there he is. A man; his teeth are jagged, gaps wide enough for me to leap through. There are only three left in his mouth, blackened and broken, and his breath reeks of decay. His gums gleam blue.

"Stop what?" he spits, voice thick with loathing. "You Redshit should stop spitting your filthy blood."

Hatred burns in his gaze, yet coldly, but he doesn't shout. His words drip with venom instead, each syllable an insult meant to cut deeper than any blade could.

Glimpsing to my right, another figure stands at the far end of the room, shrouded in the half-light. That same woman—the one with skin both pale and dark, her presence swallowing the edges of sight. But then she is gone, vanishing like smoke behind a closing door.

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