The smell of bacon hit me before I even reached the dining room. It was the kind of smell that made the world seem a little brighter—until I remembered why it was there. My father didn’t cook, of course. But he made sure the bacon was cooked, plated perfectly, and ready to go the moment his newspaper hit the table. That’s just how things worked in the Wilkins household.

I slid into my usual chair, already smiling. Not the kind of smile you flash when you’re actually happy, but the one you wear when you’ve rehearsed it in the mirror a thousand times. My father sat at the head of the table, Sunnydale Gazette in one hand, a steaming mug of coffee in the other. Mayor Richard Wilkins III: local hero, family man, and part-time aspiring demon overlord.

“Morning, son!” he said, his voice as chipper as the birds outside. He folded the paper with the kind of precision that made you wonder if he’d been practicing that, too. “First day of high school! Big day, huh? You nervous?”

I shook my head, keeping my tone casual. “Not really. First impressions are everything, right?”

“Exactly! That’s my boy!” He pointed at me with his coffee cup, grinning like we were in a father-son Hallmark movie. “You’ve got that Wilkins charm in spades. You’ll knock ’em dead.”

Hopefully not literally. “Thanks, Dad,” I said, grabbing the syrup and drenching my pancakes. My father’s smile widened, which only made me pour slower. It wasn’t just a smile; it was a mask. A flawless one, sure, but after five years of living with it, I could tell when it slipped, even if only by a millimeter. Today, though, he was all sunshine and rainbows.

Mom breezed in with a pitcher of orange juice, her heels clicking against the hardwood like she was trying not to rush. She looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion ad, all sleek lines and perfectly pinned hair. But her eyes flicked to me for just a second too long, and I caught the tension in her shoulders. The mask she wore wasn’t as polished as Dad’s, but it was still there.

“Good luck today, Richie,” she said, pouring me a glass. Her smile was tight, almost brittle, but her voice stayed steady. “You’re going to do great.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, keeping my own voice light. She didn’t need to see the pit that had taken up permanent residence in my stomach. She already had enough on her plate, what with the world’s creepiest boss doubling as her husband.

Dad took a sip of his coffee, watching us with that twinkle in his eye. “Now remember, son, high school’s not just about classes. It’s about building relationships. Make friends, join clubs. When I was your age, I was on the debate team. Wonderful experience. And the chess club! Oh, those were the days.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, carefully not rolling my eyes. He sounded like an after-school special, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t serious. Every word out of his mouth was a seed he expected to grow.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

Breakfast carried on like that, full of cheerful chatter and perfectly rehearsed routines. My dad joked, my mom smiled, and I played my part. On the surface, it was the picture of a happy family. But underneath?

Underneath, it was a game. And the stakes were life and death.

* * *

      I started packing my backpack, the movements automatic. Books, notebooks, pens—it all felt ridiculously mundane, given what I knew about Sunnydale. High school drama and locker combinations seemed so small when you were living in a town perched on the mouth of Hell.

The zipper stuck for a second, and I pulled harder. When it finally gave, I caught a glimpse of the notebook I’d shoved in there last night, half-filled with shaky sketches of runes and notes I’d pieced together from secondhand books and scraps of information. Studying the occult wasn’t exactly what most kids my age did for extracurriculars, but then again, most kids weren’t the son of an immortal warlock with a centuries-old ascension plan.

I sighed, shaking off the thought. It wasn’t like I had a choice. Self-preservation was the name of the game, and in Sunnydale, ignorance wasn’t bliss—it was a death sentence.

It had been five years since I had woken up in this world as Richard Wilkins IV. And 1 day was all it took for me to determine that I was doomed. My memories of who I was and who I had become had mixed until I was an amalgamation of the two. I remembered the town Sunnydale, with its carefully manicured lawns, suburban houses, and 12 fucking cemeteries. It had been a popular tv series from my childhood, with vampires, demons, running amok, in what could only be classified as a doom world.

I reached for the leather-bound journal on my desk, sliding it into the bag alongside my textbooks. Every time I looked at my father, I reminded myself of what he was planning: his ascension, the ritual, the demon he was preparing to become. It was easy to forget, sometimes, when he was laughing over breakfast or telling me how proud he was. But the cracks in the facade were there, if you knew where to look.

I didn’t plan to stop him. Not yet, anyway. What could I do against someone like him? He’d been playing this game for over a century, and I was just a kid with a half-baked understanding of magic. No, for now, my focus was staying alive. It certainly didn´t help that he was a great father, whom I loved dearly despite all. Keeping my head down, playing the part of the dutiful son, and waiting for Buffy to arrive.

Buffy.

She didn’t know it yet, but she was the lynchpin of this whole mess. The prophecy, the Hellmouth, the fate of Sunnydale—it all hinged on her. She had to come here. And she had to die—temporarily, of course. Because if she didn’t, everything would spiral out of control, worse than anything I could imagine. I’d seen what happened when the prophecy was disrupted, and I wasn’t about to let that play out in real time.

A knock on my door snapped me out of my thoughts. “Richie? Driver’s here,” my mom called, her voice tinged with the usual undercurrent of tension.

“Coming!” I slung the bag over my shoulder and took one last glance around my room.

Time to play the part. Time to survive another day.

The sleek black car was waiting in the driveway, the driver standing by the open door. I slid into the backseat, the leather cool against my skin. My father’s driver, Mr. Dawson, nodded at me in the rearview mirror.

“First day, huh?” he said with a smile. “You’re gonna do great, kid.”

“Thanks,” I said, keeping my tone light. I leaned back as the car pulled out of the driveway, my eyes on the Sunnydale skyline. The high school loomed in the distance, a place of normalcy for most kids. For me, it was a battlefield waiting to happen.