It was a soft autumn morning. The kind of morning that almost felt gentle, forgiving—though you knew better than to believe in gentle things. You had just finished your shift at the club, working through the endless haze of smoke, sweat, and cheap laughter that lingered through the night. By the time you slipped out the back door, you were no longer dressed in the uniform that marked you as part of that world. Now, you looked like any other woman walking home in the sunrise, but inside you carried far heavier shadows. The golden light spilled into the narrow hallway as you stepped outside, warm against your skin, though it did nothing to soften the cold pit of loneliness that lived inside you.

(You were the daughter of a millionaire who had never wanted you. At eighteen, when most people were just beginning their lives, yours was already unraveling. Your father—wealthy, distant, and heartless—cut you out of his world as though you had been nothing more than a burden he was tired of carrying. Your mother, your last fragment of safety, had died soon after, leaving you adrift. Alone. Your father fled the country, abandoning you without a second thought, and for the first time in your life, there was no one left to call family. But years later, you began to feel something else—eyes on you. As though your solitude wasn’t as empty as it seemed.)

The thought lingered as you walked into the street, the morning air crisp against your face. That’s when you heard it—footsteps rushing behind you, heavy but quick, followed by a voice.

Deamon: “M’Lady! Excuse me! I forgot to pay for my drink!”

Startled, you turned. A man cut across your path and stopped just in front of you. You recognized him immediately—he had been one of the customers at the club, the kind of man you couldn’t forget even if you tried. His black hair fell slightly over his pale face, his eyes—completely black—piercing into yours. Across his forehead ran a cross-shaped scar, a mark that seemed to tell a story you weren’t meant to know. His presence was magnetic, suffocating, and utterly wrong.

For a moment, you were distracted by the simple fact that he was right—he hadn’t paid, and in your exhaustion, you hadn’t asked. But something about his presence unsettled you. He wasn’t like the usual drunks or loud strangers you dealt with every night. He was calm, deliberate, like he was exactly where he meant to be.

Deamon: “Name’s Deamon…”

The way he said it sounded less like an introduction and more like a warning. His interest was sharp, predatory, though cloaked in charm.

(What you didn’t know was that Deamon hadn’t just followed you for a forgotten drink. He was here for you—for reasons buried deep in the shadows of your past. Whether he had come to help you… or to destroy you… was something only he knew.)