De ja who?

As George's consciousness wavered, three explosive bursts of green energy suddenly erupted around the Figure. The attacks rocked nearby containers backwards, sending debris flying through the air. With inhuman agility, the Figure dodged each blast, his movements a blur of motion.

Without hesitation, the Figure took off, covering several meters in mere seconds. He paused, turning back to fix his gaze on George's prone form. His eyes glowed with a mixture of frustration and dark amusement.

"You truly are an unlucky bastard," the Figure called out, his voice carrying easily across the distance. "With me, it would have been swift and merciless. But with this newcomer?" A chilling laugh escaped his lips. "You'll wish you were never born to begin with."

With those ominous words hanging in the air, the Figure turned and vanished into the night, his speed beyond human comprehension. As he disappeared into the distance, he glanced back one final time at the scene unfolding far behind him.

"I hate witches," he muttered, his voice laced with venom, before the darkness swallowed him completely.

George, barely clinging to consciousness, struggled to process what had just transpired. The sudden appearance of a new player, the Figure's cryptic warning, and the mention of witches swirled in his mind as he fought against the encroaching darkness. As his eyes began to close, he caught a glimpse of a shadowy form descending from the sky, approaching with purposeful steps.

The last thought that flitted through George's mind before he succumbed to unconsciousness was a mix of relief and dread. He had survived the Figure's onslaught, but what new dangers awaited him with this mysterious newcomer?

**********

The distant blare of a car horn rippled through George's ears, jolting him awake. He opened his eyes, only to immediately squint them shut as the harsh light from a white bulb assaulted his vision.

His head throbbed with an intense, pulsating ache. As he sat upright on his bed, multiple sounds bombarded his senses. It was as if he could hear the entire street conversing at once. Wait a minute – he could hear the whole street!

The noise was overwhelming, like a discordant choir with each member singing a different tune simultaneously. "What the hell is this?!" George muttered, his voice barely audible amidst the chaos of sound.

He clamped his hands over his ears, momentarily muffling the auditory onslaught. His breathing came in ragged gasps as he struggled to filter out the sounds. This wasn't supposed to happen. His senses only went into overdrive when he transformed. Why now? He was still relatively normal.

Well, if "normal" meant occasionally morphing into a powerful monster and chasing the impossible, then sure, George was the epitome of normalcy.

As he grappled with his heightened hearing, another realization struck him. He glanced down at himself, noticing he was wearing clothes different from what he had on during last night's battle with the strange figure.

"Last night," he mumbled, his brow furrowing. "What happened after I passed out? And..." His eyes widened as he took in his surroundings. "Why am I on my bed?! In new clothes?"

His gaze swept across the room, noting its pristine condition. "Wait, why is my room all clean and tidy?!"

The questions piled up in George's mind, each one adding to his growing sense of confusion and unease. He had gone from a brutal fight on the docks to waking up in his own bed, cleaned up and changed, with no memory of how he got there. And now, his vampiric senses seemed to be active even in his human form.

George tensed as he caught an unfamiliar sound drifting up from downstairs. Someone was in the house with him. An intruder? The thought sent a chill down his spine, dredging up painful memories of the night he lost Carmen and his normal life.

'Who would dare break in during broad daylight?' he wondered, a mixture of anger and trepidation coursing through him. Whoever it was, they were in for a rude awakening.

He swung his legs off the bed, reaching underneath for the baseball bat he always kept there. His hand met empty air. Gone. Not just the bat, but everything that had been under his bed was missing.

A sense of unease settled over him. Something was very wrong here. As much as he wanted to confront the intruder immediately, recent events had taught him the value of caution. Being armed seemed like the wisest course of action.

With careful movements, George made his way to the bedroom door. He turned the knob gently, wincing at even the slightest sound. Stepping into the hallway on his toes, he pressed his back against the wall, inching towards the stairs.

He peered down, scanning for any sign of movement. Nothing. The lower floor appeared empty, but his heightened senses told him otherwise. Someone was down there, moving quietly, perhaps waiting.

George descended the stairs, each step calculated and silent. His eyes locked onto the storage room door just beyond the staircase. His shotgun was in there – a comforting thought in this unsettling situation.

'Someone's about to get a one-way ticket to the great beyond,' he thought grimly, his hand reaching for the storage room doorknob.

As he grasped the handle, George paused, listening intently. The sound of movement came again, closer now, from the direction of the kitchen. His muscles tensed, ready for action. Whatever was about to happen, he was determined to face it head-on.

With a deep breath, George turned the doorknob, prepared to arm himself and confront the intruder. But as the door swung open, he froze, his eyes widening in disbelief at what he saw – or rather, what he didn't see.

The storage room, like the rest of the house, had been completely transformed. Gone were the cluttered shelves and dusty boxes. In their place was a neatly organized space, with unfamiliar items arranged in perfect order. And his shotgun? Nowhere to be seen.

"What the hell is going on here?" George muttered, his confusion mounting by the second. The sound from the kitchen came again, louder this time. Unarmed and increasingly bewildered, George realized he had no choice but to face whatever awaited him directly.

Steeling himself, he turned away from the storage room and moved towards the kitchen, every sense on high alert. Whatever – or whoever – was in his house, George was determined to get answers, one way or another.

George cautiously entered the kitchen, his body tense and ready for confrontation. Instead, he stumbled upon a figure in an apron, their back turned to him as they whisked away at a batter. The cascade of lustrous black hair immediately sparked recognition.

"You've got some nerve," George growled, his voice a mixture of relief and irritation.

The figure spun around, revealing a face George knew all too well. Nebula stood there, a wide smile plastered across her face, her green eyes quickly scanning George from head to toe.

"I wasn't sure the PJs would suit you," she said cheerfully, "but seeing you now, I'd say my guess was spot on."

Before George could respond, Nebula gestured towards an open pantry on the counter. "Want some cookies? They're just cooling off."

George blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sheer normalcy of the scene before him. Here he was, fresh from a life-threatening battle, waking up to find his house mysteriously cleaned and reorganized, and Nebula was offering him cookies as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Shaking his head to clear it, George fixed Nebula with a stern look. "Nebula," he said, his voice tight with confusion and a hint of exasperation, "what are you doing in my house?"