"Allen! Oh my God, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! This is all my fault!"
The words were soaked in sobs, trembling against Allen's ears like raindrops against a coffin lid.
He stirred. The voice—young, panicked, and strangely familiar—echoed through the haze of his awakening. Allen's first incoherent thought was that his girlfriend had dyed his hair green again. But then came the realization, sudden and cold.
He didn't have a girlfriend.
So why the hell was someone sobbing on top of him?
Allen tried to open his eyes, but a searing pain drilled into his skull like a rusty nail. He froze, paralyzed, his limbs foreign and unresponsive.
Another voice joined in—older, smoother, with the calm cadence of someone used to tragedy.
"It's not your fault, baby. If blame must fall, let it fall on me and your father."
The girl didn't stop crying. "No! I killed him! Allen's dead, and I—I did it!"
Killed me?
Allen wanted to scream, but no sound came. He strained against the fog in his brain, forcing his body to respond. He was still in there. Still alive.
But the flesh wouldn't obey.
His thoughts were a cacophony. His body—a tomb.
"Zoe," the mother continued, "there are things I should've told you long ago."
"...things?" Zoe's voice cracked.
"Yes. The truth. Your great-grandmother carried the same burden. I prayed you'd be spared, but God wasn't listening. Zoe… you've inherited the bloodline."
"What do you mean?"
"You're a witch, Zoe. This isn't superstition or folklore. It's real. The blood of the Salem coven runs through our veins. Your great-grandmother wielded it. And now... so do you."
Allen, still silent, listening in his living death, felt something shift within him. That word. Witch.
It triggered something ancient in him. Not memory. Something older. A whisper beneath the skin.
Zoe's voice trembled. "That's... insane."
"I wish it were," her mother said. "I truly do. But what happened to Allen... it was your first awakening. Your powers aren't safe. Not yet. I've contacted the Council. They'll be taking you to New Orleans. There's a sanctuary there. A place for girls like you."
"You're sending me away?" she asked, horrified. "But Allen—"
"I'll handle Allen's funeral," her mother said gently.
"No..."
NO.
Allen's mind screamed. Not a coffin. Not an urn. Not yet.
Desperation surged through him, primal and violent. His muscles screamed as he fought whatever force had him caged.
And then—release.
It was like shattering glass in his mind. A vision—brief, but potent—of a book. Bound in cracked, weathered leather, engraved with the sigil of an open eye. The Book of Shelter.
Then, with monumental effort, Allen's eyes fluttered open. His arm twitched. His voice, dry and broken, slipped through cracked lips.
"Hey... I think... I can still make it."
The world tilted. Darkness returned.
"Allen!" Zoe shrieked.
He slipped into black.
When Allen woke again, the sterile light above him flickered like a haunted bulb. A machine beeped steadily beside his bed.
He was in a hospital. Somehow, still alive.
Zoe sat curled up at his side, golden hair messy, eyelids heavy. She looked younger now, vulnerable, nothing like the girl who had apparently killed him.
And then the memories came.
Zoe Benson. His girlfriend at school. The night they'd decided to take things further. Her first time. His last.
A shudder rolled through him. Not from trauma, but recognition.
No, this wasn't right.
Allen clutched his head. More memories surfaced. Another world. Another life. He was a college student. China. A dusty old bookstall. An ancient tome. The Book of Shelter. Then—screeching tires, a red light, a speeding car.
He remembered flying.
Then silence.
So... had he died? Had his soul been thrown into this world—into this boy?
His new body was nearly identical to the one he left behind. But this—this place, this setting...
It was like a television episode he had seen once, late at night. A cult series drenched in blood and secrets. Witches. Coven. Zoe Benson.
Holy hell.
He was inside American Horror Story: Coven.
Allen sat up abruptly. The girl—Zoe—stirred and blinked awake.
Her eyes widened when she saw him. Without hesitation, she threw herself onto him, arms wrapped around his chest.
"Oh thank God! Allen! You're alive! I thought... I thought I killed you! I didn't know what was happening... I'm so, so sorry!"
She babbled, her words pouring out like a flood from a broken dam.
Allen felt her warmth against him, her breath shaking. She wasn't faking it.
"I..." he began.
But his words were smothered. Zoe kissed him—desperate, grateful, unpracticed. Allen's brain short-circuited.
The kiss was raw. Real. And for someone who had never even held hands back in his original world, it was a sensory overload.
The heart monitor beside the bed spiked.
By the time she pulled back, Allen was gasping for air. A little dazed, a little dizzy.
Zoe didn't seem to notice. She handed him water. Peeled fruit. She hung on his every glance like a priestess worshiping an idol.
Allen watched her.
Cute. Caring. Maybe a little too deadly.
A black widow, he thought. Not the Marvel kind. The real kind.
Still... better than dying alone.
The hospital door creaked open. The air shifted. A presence entered the room like a gust of scented decay.
"What pure, young love," a voice sang. "It reminds me of my own first incantation."
Zoe bolted upright.
In the corner, seated as if she'd always been there, was a woman dressed in flowing red, long orange hair cascading like fire. Lace gloves. Oversized sunglasses. She looked like a time traveler from a Gothic masquerade ball.
"Who are you?" Zoe asked.
The woman smiled. "Me? I'm one of your kind, darling. You may call me Myrtle."
"Kind?" Zoe repeated.
"You mean... you're a witch?"
Myrtle's smile deepened. "My dear, you are a witch now. The real question is, are you ready to become one in truth?"
She rose and glided forward, brushing Zoe's cheek like a collector inspecting porcelain.
"The Council received your mother's message. When bloodlines awaken, we act. The old Salem magic is rare these days. Girls like you are priceless."
She turned to Allen, reclining in bed. "Of course, not everyone bounces back from death. Consider yourself lucky, young man."
Zoe stiffened. "I'm not leaving. I'm staying here with Allen."
Myrtle's smile faltered. "That's not a choice, my dear. The Council must ensure your safety. The world is not kind to witches. Only days ago, a girl like you was burned alive in Kansas by a crowd that mistook her for a demon."
She glanced at Allen again.
"And not everyone gets second chances. You need to control your power. Before you kill someone else. Allen, wouldn't you agree?"
Allen forced a smile. "Yeah... totally."
He recognized her now. Myrtle Snow. The eccentric witch. High-ranking. Brilliant. Dangerous.
He also knew better than to provoke her.
As her gaze pierced him, he did his best not to look like a science experiment.
"Curious," Myrtle said. "The Benson bloodline has never left survivors. And yet... here you are."
Allen just smiled. A survivor indeed. But how long could he keep it that way?
***
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