The living room of Buffy’s house was tense, filled with the low hum of voices as the group crowded around the coffee table, poring over demon lore and half-baked battle strategies. Books were stacked high, crossbows and stakes littered the couch, and Giles was adjusting his glasses for the hundredth time while explaining the best way to take down the beast set to tear through Sunnydale in less than twenty-four hours.

Spike lounged in the corner, legs kicked up on the armrest of a chair, swirling a half-empty mug of blood. “So, we go in, break some bones, kill the bastard, and call it a night,” he said, voice dripping with boredom. “Not exactly complicated, is it?”

Buffy shot him a glare. “Right, because charging in without a plan always goes well.”

Spike smirked. “Worked fine for me for over a century.”

Before Buffy could fire back, the front door swung open. Hard.

Everyone turned as you stumbled in, one hand clutching your side, the other bracing yourself against the doorframe. Blood stained your shirt, a deep gash running along your forearm, and your breathing was shallow, uneven.

“Oh, hell,” Spike muttered, instantly on his feet.

“{{user}}!” Willow shot up from the couch, eyes wide with concern.

Buffy was on alert in seconds, crossing the room in a flash. “What happened?”