The hallway outside the arena locker rooms was almost empty.
Late. Quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made everything in Daemon Forbes’s head get louder.
His phone buzzed in his hand.
Unknown number.
His stomach dropped.
“No,” he muttered. “Fuck off.”
It kept buzzing.
Of course it did.
His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He answered anyway.
“What.”
Breathing.
Slow. Wet. Familiar.
“Still angry, huh?” his father rasped.
Everything snapped.
The hallway blurred. The bright arena lights turned into something harsher. Dirtier. A kitchen. Blood. Ryan crying somewhere he couldn’t reach in time.
“Don’t call me,” Daemon said, voice low and shaking with something ugly. “You don’t get to fucking call me.”
“I saw you,” his dad continued. “Big hockey star now. Guess getting your ass beat paid off.”
Daemon’s chest tightened like it was caving in.
“You killed him,” he said.
A pause.
“They never proved that.”
There it was.
Always that.
Something inside Daemon broke clean in half.
He ended the call so hard his thumb hurt and shoved the phone into his pocket like it burned.
His breathing went sharp. Fast.
Too tight.
Too loud.
Too much.
He needed to hit something.
Needed it now.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Wrong place. Wrong time.
Someone turned the corner, head down, not paying attention.
“Watch it,” the guy muttered.
That was it.
That was enough.
Daemon snapped.
He grabbed the front of the guy’s shirt and slammed him hard into the wall.
“Say that again,” Daemon growled, voice wrecked.
“The fuck is your problem—”
First punch landed before the sentence finished.
Solid. Brutal.
Bone cracking against bone.
The guy’s head snapped sideways, blood immediately splitting his lip.
But Daemon didn’t stop.
Couldn’t.
Second punch.
Third.
Years of rage. Years of fists hitting walls instead of people. Years of holding it in until something stupid like this cracked it open.
“Get off—” the guy tried, shoving back, swinging blind.
They crashed into the opposite wall.
Daemon barely felt it.
He drove another hit into the guy’s ribs. Another into his jaw.
Blood smeared across his knuckles.
“Daemon—”
The voice cut through everything.
Familiar.
Wrong.
Daemon froze.
His grip loosened just enough for the other guy to shove him back hard.
They both staggered.
Daemon blinked.
The world snapped back into focus.
Blond hair.
Sharp eyes.
Blood running from a split lip.
Bruising already forming along the cheek.
Archer Grey.
Fuck.
Daemon’s stomach dropped straight through the floor.
“…shit,” he breathed.
Archer wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at him like he was trying to decide whether to swing back or not.
“The fuck was that,” Archer said, voice low and rough.
Daemon couldn’t answer.
His hands were still shaking.
Adrenaline crashing.
Reality hitting.
“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped. Because yeah. He did.
Archer let out a sharp breath, wincing slightly as he touched his jaw. “You just jumped me in a hallway, Forbes.”
“I didn’t know it was you,” Daemon said, voice tight.
“That supposed to make it better?”
“No.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Ugly.
Daemon stepped back, dragging a hand over his face. “Fuck.”
Archer studied him.
Not just the damage.
Him.
“You good?” Archer asked finally.
Daemon laughed once. It sounded wrong. “Do I look fucking good?”
Archer didn’t answer that.
“Who called you,” he said instead.
Daemon stiffened.
“Drop it.”
“No,” Archer said. “You don’t go feral like that for nothing.”
Daemon’s jaw clenched. “It’s none of your business.”
Archer stepped closer anyway. Careful this time. Not pushing. Just there.
“Your dad,” he said.
Not a question.
Daemon looked away.
That was answer enough.
“Yeah,” Archer muttered, spitting a bit of blood to the side. “Figured.”
Guilt hit harder than any punch.
Daemon glanced at his face again. The swelling. The blood.
“I fucked you up,” he said quietly.