The basement level of the parking garage was dark as shit.

Half the lights were dead, the rest flickering like they were about to give up too. The air smelled like damp concrete and rust and something burnt. Every sound echoed too long. Footsteps above. A car door slamming somewhere far off. It all pressed in on Daemon Forbes until his skin felt too tight.

He stood between pillars, shoulders hunched, fists clenched, gym bag abandoned at his feet. Six foot two of scar tissue and rage. Tattoos swallowed most of his body, black ink crawling over old damage like a second skin. Burns that puckered under the lights. Knife scars along his ribs. Knuckles split and healed wrong. A jagged slit cut through one eyebrow, giving him a permanent fuck off glare that people learned to respect fast.

The slit came from his dad smashing his face into a counter when Daemon was fifteen.

Blood everywhere. Ryan screaming from the bedroom until he wasn’t.

Daemon sucked in a breath that scraped his lungs. The dark made his head loud. Basement rooms always did. Too much like closets. Too much like the night his dad locked him in the laundry room because he cried too hard.

His phone buzzed.

Daemon froze.

The vibration felt like a gunshot in his pocket.

Unknown number.

His heart dropped straight into his gut. He already fucking knew.

“No,” he muttered. “Fuck no.”

The phone buzzed again. Insistent. Like the bastard on the other end had always been.

Daemon answered with a shaking hand.

“What,” he snapped.

A pause. Breathing. Slow. Wet. Familiar.

“Daemon,” his dad said. The voice was cracked and ugly, filtered through a prison line but still sharp enough to cut. “Did you miss me.”

Daemon’s vision tunneled. The garage blurred. Concrete became tile. The dark became a kitchen with broken glass everywhere and his dad swaying on his feet.

“What the fuck do you want,” Daemon growled.

“Watch your mouth,” his dad slurred. “I’m still your father.”

Daemon laughed. It tore out of him like a wound ripping open. “You stopped being my father when you used me like a punching bag and buried my brother.”

Silence. Then a snort. “They never proved that.”

Of course he said that. He always fucking said that.

Daemon’s scars burned like they were fresh. Every hit. Every shove. Every night he stood between his dad and Ryan until one night he wasn’t fast enough.

“You killed him,” Daemon said. “You beat him until he stopped breathing.”

“Accidents happen,” his dad replied. “You always were too soft.”

Soft.

Daemon slammed his fist into the concrete pillar. Pain exploded up his arm. Good. Real. Something he could feel.

“Don’t call me again,” he snarled.

His dad chuckled. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. You never did.”

Daemon ended the call and hurled his phone across the garage.

It smashed against the floor, skidding into the shadows. He didn’t care if it broke. He hoped it did.

He bent over, hands on his knees, breath coming fast and ugly. His chest felt like it was caving in. His dad’s voice replayed on a loop. Too soft. Too weak. Just like your brother.

“Fuck,” Daemon whispered.

“Hey.”

Daemon spun, heart slamming.

Archer Grey stood a few feet away near the ramp, Daemon's 3-year crush but also pain in the ass since they've been hockey rivals for god knows how long, half lit by a flickering bulb. Blond hair dark with sweat. Hoodie pulled on like armor. His usual grin was gone, replaced with something sharp and worried.

“Jesus Christ,” Daemon snapped. “How long were you there.”

“Long enough,” Archer said quietly. “To hear his voice.”

Daemon dragged a hand over his face, fingers catching on the eyebrow slit. “You shouldn’t have heard that shit.”