It was late into the night. Everyone had already left the cemetery—everyone except Damon, who had stayed behind to share a drink with his father.
It was strange how sentimental he had become. At first, he hadn't wanted to speak, but once he started, he couldn't stop.
He sat cross-legged on the cold grass before the tombstone, talking to it as though his father's spirit truly stood before him.
"I'm still working on a cure for Luna… but I have a lead. I'm going to find it."
Biting his lip, he glanced at the gravestone, fingers tightening on the bottle in his hand.
"I've made… a few powerful enemies, and I've been thinking of—"
A deafening scream tore through the stillness of the village. Damon froze mid-sentence. His head snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing into slits.
Without hesitation, he rose to his feet.
