Chapter 2: The Burden of New Beginnings
The scent hit first—fresh paint, varnished wood, a trace of maple syrup drifting in from somewhere nearby. Sam's eyes opened slowly, the ceiling above him blurred in sunlight. For a heartbeat, everything felt... normal.
Then the rush came.
Not pain—memory. Only they weren't his. They flooded in like someone else's dream—familiar faces, voices, moments etched into a life he hadn't lived. A picnic by the river. Elena's laughter. Grayson's steady hand on his shoulder. Jeremy shooting him with a Nerf gun and yelling about pizza. It was too vivid. Too real.
Sam sat up in bed, breath controlled but sharp, his body taut like a drawn bow. His palms pressed into the mattress, feeling the softness, the warmth. This wasn't his apartment. No soot. No scorched gear. No melted mask against his skin.
He scanned the room—smooth floors, rustic dresser, a window cracked open just enough to let the breeze stir the curtains. A quiet, idyllic kind of silence hummed beneath it all.
This is Mystic Falls.
He rose without stumbling, his body reacting with muscle memory that wasn't quite his. Sam Gilbert. The name echoed alongside his own like a split track being forced into harmony. His reflection in the mirror confirmed it—a version of him, yes, but leaner, sharpened. Less worn, more refined. Same eyes, though. Those hadn't changed. Still the same quiet storm behind the stare.
There was no fear. No denial. Just observation, calculation. He'd accepted reality the moment Dionysus sent him tumbling through the veil. It wasn't about asking why anymore. It was about what now?
The Red Hood System was dormant for now—silent, but present. A quiet hum in the base of his skull, like an engine in idle. He could almost feel it pulsing behind the scenes, watching, waiting. Testing.
He took in a deep breath and let it go slow. No use freaking out. No room for panic. Panic got you killed. That's what made Sam different. Even now—planted in a fiction-turned-reality, inhabiting a stranger's life—his thoughts were measured, grounded.
A soft knock on the door broke the silence.
"Sam?" a woman's voice, gentle, familiar. "You awake? Pancakes are ready."
Miranda.
He didn't answer at first. He glanced at the window again, then the door. The voice tugged at something lodged in those new memories—warmth, safety. It felt... earned.
"Yeah," he called back, voice steady. "Be down in a sec."
There was a pause. A muffled "Okay, sweetheart," and retreating footsteps.
Sam ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He wasn't ready for a reunion scene. But he didn't have time to sit around processing. Every second mattered. The system hadn't activated yet, but that wouldn't last. And when it did, things would escalate. Fast.
Downstairs was the kind of domestic peace he didn't remember ever having. Miranda was at the stove, humming quietly as she flipped pancakes. Jeremy was at the table, feet up on a second chair, thumbing away on a handheld game. Elena sat beside him, a paperback cracked open in her hands, looking up briefly to flash a smile as Sam entered.
"Morning," she said, like it was just any other morning.
Sam offered a small nod, sliding into the chair across from them. The familiarity in their eyes tugged at something deep, but he didn't flinch.
"Hey, Uncle Sam!" Jeremy chirped, not even looking up. "Did you bring us anything from your trip?"
Trip. Right. That was the cover. Traveling. Out of town for months. Training, according to the memories. Grayson had kept the story tight—smart man.
"I brought pancakes," Sam said evenly. Jeremy groaned.
"That doesn't count."
Miranda turned from the stove, placing a fresh stack in front of him. "Still warm. Just how you like them."
Sam stared at the plate for a second too long before cutting in, the knife gliding through without resistance.
"Thanks," he murmured, the word a little stiff, but sincere.
Across the table, Elena tilted her head slightly. Studying him.
"You okay?" she asked. "You seem... different."
Sam met her gaze, calm and unflinching. "I feel different."
There was silence for a moment. But she didn't press. That was the thing about this family—they felt real. Not perfect, but human. It was strange how fast that sense of comfort crept in. Familiar... even if it wasn't truly his.
Grayson entered the kitchen, already dressed for work, mug of coffee in hand. His eyes flicked toward Sam with a quiet, brotherly check-in.
"Sleep alright?"
"Yeah." Sam met his gaze, matched it. "Dreams were weird."
Grayson smirked, nodding like that tracked. "This house does that."
Sam's fingers tapped quietly against the table. The hum of the system stirred in the back of his mind, faint but distinct now—like a radar slowly coming online.
He kept his expression still, his body language loose. No one noticed the shift in his shoulders, the way his eyes tracked exits, mapped escape routes without conscious effort. Firefighters didn't survive without instinct.
"Jeremy's got that science project due," Grayson said, sliding into the seat next to Sam. "I told him you'd help."
Sam glanced at the kid. "What's it on?"
Jeremy looked up, grinning. "Volcanoes! I'm making it explode."
Sam smiled faintly. "Good choice. Just don't burn the kitchen down."
"I make no promises."
He took another bite of pancake and scanned the kitchen casually. Pictures on the fridge. A calendar on the wall—May 2001.
He had time.
The system stirred again.
Sam exhaled. A single thought settled in his mind like an anchor.
Control t the tempo..
He didn't need to race into anything. No need to kick down doors or announce his presence. He was here now. Embedded. Hidden in plain sight.
He just needed to prepare.
When the chaos came—and it would come—he'd be ready.
He was already sharpening his claws.