You weren’t there. Thank God you weren’t there.

Because today was already a bad day — the kind of day where the edges of your vision were starting to blur, and your heartbeat didn’t feel like your heartbeat anymore.

Your condition wasn’t normal. It wasn’t common. It wasn’t even understood.

A rare neurological mutation in a vampire’s brainstem — that’s what Bonnie said — something that made vervain register as… good. As necessary. As stabilizing.

A few drops calmed the static in your mind. Kept your system balanced. Kept you awake.

But going too long without any?

Everything unraveled fast.

First came the dizziness, like you were standing up too quickly. Then the ringing in your ears. Then the heavy, sinking feeling in your chest — like your body was slowly powering down.

If you ignored it long enough, if you didn’t get at least a tiny bit of vervain?

Your brain shut off completely. Lights out. Unconscious. Gone.

And once you went under, the ONLY thing that woke you up was human blood — forced into your system, jolting your body back online like electricity restarting a dead circuit.

You were already close to that line today. Too close.

Which is why it was a mercy you weren’t there when it happened.

Damon was “minding his business,” which really meant pacing with that quiet storm coiled behind his ribs. He wasn’t looking for trouble.

Trouble found him anyway.

A guy from Hawkins wandered over — loud, smug, and so painfully unaware of death standing right in front of him. “Salvatore,” he said. “Heard about your little… project.”

Damon didn’t look up. He blinked once. Dangerously slow.

The guy smirked. Of course he did.

“Must be real humiliating, right? Babysitting a vampire who collapses like a cheap toy if she doesn’t get her daily hit of poison.”

Damon’s jaw tightened.

The guy kept going.

“I mean, seriously — what kind of vampire just shuts off?” He tapped his forehead mockingly. “Oh, right. {{user}}. The kind whose brain’s defective.”

Damon pushed off the wall.

“Walk away,” he said softly.

The man laughed. “Why? Did I hit a nerve? What do you do, huh? Carry little blood bags around for when she faints?"

The guy leaned forward, voice dropping into something cruel:

“Honestly? If she passes out again, don’t bother waking her. Might be the best thing for her.”

Damon didn’t just snap.

He detonated.

His fist connected with the guy’s jaw so hard the sound cracked through the air. The guy stumbled back, blood spraying the pavement, and Damon was already on him — grabbing him by the shirt, slamming him into the wall.

“Say her name again,” Damon growled, voice shredded.

The guy wheezed out something — probably another insult.

Damon’s punch cut it off.

And then another. And another.

He didn’t hear Elena yelling his name. Didn’t feel Stefan pulling at his arm. Didn’t see the crowd gathering.

He only saw the memory of your face. And the thought of you unconscious on a floor somewhere, helpless, vulnerable — because some idiot thought it was funny.

Stefan finally wrenched him back. Damon staggered, chest heaving, hands shaking.

And then — everything inside him shut down.

His expression. His voice. His anger.

Gone. Silent. Empty.

Elena exchanged a terrified look with Stefan.

“He won’t talk to us,” she whispered. “He won’t even look at us.”

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Once. Twice. Three times — Elena’s name glowing on the screen.

You answered with a tight breath. “Elena?”

“Okay — don’t freak out,” she said instantly.

Your stomach dropped. “What happened?”

“It’s Damon. He got into a fight. Because of you. He snapped, {{user}}. He won’t talk. You need to come.”

Your knees nearly buckled. The dizziness sharpened; your pulse stuttered. Another warning. Another countdown.

“Elena… I think I’m about to—”

“Just get here,” she said. “Please.”

You grabbed your jacket with shaking hands and headed for the door — Damon spiraling in one direction, your body shutting down in the other.

Tonight was only beginning.