Page 71 of Victorious

“Give up. Give in. In the end, it would be better to surrender…”

But those weren’t Eli’s words.

They were his. Carved from a block of text in one of his parents’ self-help books.

Lockland. Senior year. Victor, sitting on the grass, his back against an iron fence, the book open in his hands. Black Sharpie whispering across the paper as it blotted out the text.

And then another arc of pain tore through his chest, sharp enough to bring Victor to his senses and banish Eli’s specter. Sharp enough to make him understand how close he was to danger.

He lunged for the inhaler, Eli’s hands no longer there to stop him.

But when he brought it to his lips, nothing came out. The vial. He hadn’t swapped the vial out.

The case lay on the table by the door.

Halfway there, a sharpened jolt shot through him, made him stumble, fall. He braced himself against the floor, trying to rise. He couldn’t. His limbs locked, the way they had the night Angie turned the current up.

He closed his eyes, expecting to be met with Eli’s smug expression, but instead, he saw Sydney, her face contorted with concern. It’s my fault.

The pain faltered, dipped, and in that moment, Victor got back up.

Somehow, he reached the table, and got the case open, revealing the electric blue light of the last vial. Somehow, he got the empty one out of the inhaler, and got the new one in before the pain slammed into him again, and he collapsed against the desk, his vision dotting black as his heart faltered, lost its rhythm. With the last seconds of strength, he forced the inhaler to his mouth, and hit the button, and breathed in.

The compound flooded his body, dousing his nerves, cutting the charge and his power.

And the seizing stopped.

Victor sank to the floor, gasping for air.

He flung the inhaler away, watched it skate across the room. He ran a hand through his pale hair, and slicked it back, breathing slow and steady until his pulse began to stabilize. Equilibrium, restored.

Eli was right. He couldn’t go on like this.

Slowly, he stood, his body fragile in the aftermath, like it was full of cracks, might shatter at the slightest touch. But he hadn’t broken yet.

The gun was still on the table. Eli’s voice still in his head. Victor ignored them both and went to his desk.

It had taken another brush with death to bring him to his senses, but his mind felt clearer than it had in months. He would find someone to recreate the compound, and after that, he would learn to do it himself. And then, he’d alter it, until he either found a cure—or died trying.

He sank into the chair before the laptop and drew up the list of prospective chemists he and Mitch had compiled.

Victor clicked through the profiles, pausing on the third.

His pale eyes narrowed, even as the corner of his mouth tipped up. He’d never put much stock in God, or fate, but someone out there had a sense of humor.

Prof. Daniela Dean.

It wasn’t just the name—alliterative though it was—or the credentials that struck him.

It was her location: Lockland University.

The place where it all started. Where Victor first became what he was meant to be. And what he vowed to be again.

Powerful.

XINOW. THEN.

3 MONTHS LATER