MINUTES BEFORE LAMIA RECOVERY
Maxandra's breath hitched as the heart monitor's unforgiving tone filled the room. The long, piercing beep pierced through her chest like a dagger, draining the warmth from her body as she stared at the unmoving form of her only son, Lamia. His chest, once rising with shallow, labored breaths, lay still. The dull gray of death seemed to creep across his skin, and for a moment, everything in the world stilled.
"No... no, no, no," she whispered, her voice trembling, eyes locked on the still figure before her. Her legs wobbled beneath her as if the weight of her grief was pulling her into the ground. The nurses and doctors rushed in, scrambling to revive him, but Maxandra couldn't move. Her whole world felt frozen.
She clutched her throat, unable to scream, unable to cry out. This wasn't real—it couldn't be. Lamia had always been her light, her reason to live. She had done everything, sacrificed everything, for him. The noise of the doctors yelling instructions, the beeping machines, the cold slap of reality, they all blended into a distant hum in her head.
"Clear!" one of the doctors yelled, defibrillator paddles in hand, as they desperately tried to shock Lamia back to life. But his body jolted lifelessly in response.
Maxandra's heart shattered with every failed attempt. "God, please," she whispered under her breath, her palms clasped together in prayer, fingers trembling. "Please bring him back."
The doctor shook his head, signaling another attempt. "Clear!" But again, no response.
Maxandra felt her knees buckle, and Dominic, who had been silently watching from the corner, rushed forward to catch her before she hit the ground. She fell into his arms, a lifeless weight. His face was lined with concern, but there was nothing he could say, nothing that would ease the unimaginable agony flooding her senses.
Then, as if by some miracle, the flatline on the monitor flickered. The long, continuous beep was suddenly interrupted by a stuttering, rhythmic pulse. Maxandra's breath hitched. Her eyes shot up to the monitor, unbelieving. The heart rate was coming back. Slowly, rhythmically. Lamia's chest rose once more, faintly at first, but then stronger with each breath.
The room fell into shocked silence. The doctors stood in disbelief, exchanging wide-eyed glances. This wasn't natural—this wasn't something they had done. It was as though some unseen force had intervened.
Maxandra pulled herself from Dominic's grasp and threw herself toward Lamia's bed, cradling his face, her tears now streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks. "Thank you, God! Oh, thank you," she sobbed, kissing his cold forehead. He was alive—her baby boy was alive. "You're back… you're back."
The doctors whispered to one another, some muttering about miracles, others questioning the supernatural. But none of it mattered to Maxandra. She didn't care how it happened; all that mattered was that her son was back.
Dominic exhaled a sigh of relief, though his face remained strained with tension. He couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something wasn't right. The circumstances surrounding Lamia's survival were far from ordinary. But for now, his concern was for Maxandra's joy. He watched as she clung to Lamia, unwilling to let go, fearing that if she did, the miracle might reverse.
Lamia, still unconscious, was far from recovered. The doctors cautioned Maxandra that while his heart had restarted, the trauma his body and brain endured was still critical. Numerous surgeries had followed, and though his body had been repaired, there was one devastating consequence—they could not restore his memories.
Maxandra had made the difficult decision to ensure he would never remember his past, especially Charles' death. The thought of him knowing, of him having to relive the pain of losing his father, was unbearable. Yes, it was selfish, and she knew it. But Lamia was too fragile. His recovery was the priority, even if it meant erasing parts of who he was.
The reality of it all hit her like a crashing wave. She began to weep, her tears soaking the sterile hospital sheets. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I didn't want this… but you're safe now. I'll protect you from everything, even if it means you never remember."
And during the processes of Lamia recovery Maxandra remarried, it was a man named Lucas the heir of the Alexandrias and the owner of the Alexandria glamorous estate, the marriage was under a mysterious circumstances in which only the people involved knew off.
As days turned to months and Months turned to weeks, weeks to years, in the shadows of La Muerte Silenciosa, Damian's frail body shuddered with exhaustion. He had been trapped in that hell for what felt like an eternity, his once vibrant hazel eyes now dull and hollow. Every muscle in his body ached from the endless experiments, the probing needles, the agonizing injections.
Dante stood before him, arms crossed, his expression twisted with frustration. "I'm losing my patience," he snarled, throwing a glass vase across the room. The sharp sound of shattering glass echoed through the cold stone walls. "I need results, Doctor T! Where is the power you promised me?"
Doctor T flinched but kept his composure. He turned to the collection of monitors displaying Damian's vitals, each showing disturbing signs that something beyond their comprehension lurked within the boy. "The energy... it's not from our world," Doctor T muttered under his breath, his fingers nervously tapping against the controls. "I can't trace its origin."
"I don't care where it's from!" Dante barked, his voice sharp and cutting. "I want it harnessed. Use him until there's nothing left. I don't care if the boy dies."
Damian's thin, shaking hands clenched into fists. He had endured every torture they could throw at him, but Dante's words cut deeper than any wound. The thought of dying in that forsaken place, a mere experiment to satisfy Dante's lust for power, made his blood boil. He wanted to scream, to fight back—but his body was too weak.
Yet despite his failing strength, Damian's mind was sharp, and he had hidden a secret from his captors—the silver necklace, once worn by Alexis, now tucked away in a hidden compartment. His last connection to the life he once knew, to the beautiful boy he had fallen in love with. Whenever the agony became unbearable, he would think of Alexis, of his deep midnight-blue eyes and the way his long red hair shimmered in the sunlight.
But with each passing day, hope faded. Damian feared he might never see the outside world again. And worse, he doubted he would ever see Lamia—Alexis—alive.
Back at Raven Hollow, the search for Damian Wayne Williams had become a desperate affair. His disappearance had taken a heavy toll on Mr. and Mrs. Wayne. Mr. Wayne, once a strong man, now walked the village streets in a daze, shouting Damian's name as though hoping his voice might somehow call him back from wherever he was. Villagers pitied him, but none could help.
And then one day, the villagers made a grim discovery. Damian's clothes—torn, bloodied—were found in the Black Forest. The sight of them sent shockwaves through the village. Mr. Wayne's knees buckled at the news, and when Mrs. Wayne heard, she collapsed, her heart finally giving out from the weight of grief.
Within days, she was gone. Mrs. Wayne, the woman who had fought so hard to keep her family together, was found lifeless in her bed, a victim of heartbreak. Mr. Wayne, devastated and alone, withdrew into himself, living in the empty shell of their once-happy home, surrounded only by memories and ghosts.
Back in the cold, dark corridors of La Muerte Silenciosa, Damian sat strapped to a chair, countless wires attached to his frail body. His veins throbbed from the endless blood extractions, his body riddled with punctures from the thick syringes used to drain him of life.
But today was different. Today, Doctor T stood triumphant before him, a malicious grin spread across his face. "We've done it," Doctor T announced to Dante. "We've isolated the spark of his power. It's time."
Dante's eyes gleamed with greed as he stepped into the room. The dim lights cast long shadows, the scent of blood and chemicals thick in the air. "Finally," he murmured, eyeing Damian with hungry anticipation.
Doctor T prepared a syringe, its long needle gleaming under the dim light, filled with a viscous black liquid. He plunged it into Damian's arm, injecting the substance deep into his bloodstream. Damian convulsed violently, his body wracked with spasms as the liquid spread through him like wildfire.
But something was wrong.
Damian's skin, once pale and fragile, began to darken. His eyes snapped open, glowing a deep, menacing red. His body twisted and contorted, bones cracking as they reformed in unnatural ways. He began to laugh—a low, guttural sound that sent shivers down Dante's spine.
Doctor T's face went pale. "This isn't supposed to happen," he stammered, backing away in fear.
Dante's eyes widened in horror. "What have you done?!"
Damian's laughter grew louder, more unhinged, as he broke free of his restraints with ease. He raised his hand, and the air around him seemed to crackle with power. Blood-red energy swirled from his fingertips, forming deadly circles in the air.