The room was dimly lit, a haze of smoke lingering in the air like a ghost of past sins. The scent of blood, sharp and metallic, permeated every breath. Damian slumped in his leather chair, the once-pristine white of his shirt marred by a dark crimson stain that spread from his side. His hand pressed firmly against the wound, but his expression remained impassive—cold, calculated. Even in pain, he exuded authority, like a wounded predator daring anyone to come closer.

Across from him, the enemy loomed, a grim figure bathed in shadow, the gun in his hand steady and aimed squarely at Damian’s heart. His eyes were filled with a triumphant malice, lips curled into a smirk. He had waited years for this moment, and victory was finally within reach.

His eyes, sharp and unyielding, never left the enemy’s face. There was no fear there, only an unsettling calm. He leaned back slightly, a painful twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth, but it twisted into the hint of a smile at the sight of you in the doorway

“you’re late for the party, Darling.”