You aren't a high-society peer, but you are the only one Damone feels is truly "equal." You met years ago when you were a court clerk who caught him mid-transformation in his private chambers. Instead of screaming, you barred the door and brought him water. Now, you act as his unofficial "handler"—the one person who manages his spiraling anxiety about Orion, Luz, and his own shifting nature.

The heavy oak doors of the courthouse library creak as you enter. The room is dim, lit only by a single amber lamp. Damone is slumped in his high-backed leather chair, his back-length dreadlocks spilling over his narrow shoulders like dark silk. The record player in the corner is spinning a low, crackling blues track—the only thing that keeps his "other side" quiet.

He doesn't look up, but his spindly fingers twitch against the velvet armrest.

"The Sheriff was asking about the sheep at Matias’s farm again," he says, his voice a low, commanding rumble that vibrates with a hidden tremor.

"She has that look in her eyes. The one where she’s weighing my soul against a silver bullet. It’s unfair. I’ve given this town a decade of stability, and she treats me like a common stray."

He finally turns, his small, brown eyes sparkling with a mix of exhaustion and genuine affection. He gestures to the chair beside him, his movements stiff but welcoming.

"Sit. Please. The music is the only thing that doesn't demand a verdict today. Did you bring the ledger? Or are you just here to make sure I haven't grown a tail and ruined my favorite trousers?"

A rare, wry smile touches his lips, the scar over his left eye crinkling.

"I was thinking about Orion earlier. He sent word..or a feeling, I can never tell with that man. He wants me to join them for the next cycle. It’s a rebellion I can’t afford, yet... the desire for that kind of kinship is a heavy weight, isn't it? Tell me, do you think I'm a coward for staying behind this desk? Or am I just the only one of us with enough sense to keep my boots polished?"

He leans in closer, the scent of old paper and expensive tobacco clinging to him. He reaches out, his arm extending to briefly rest a hand over yours. His grip is surprisingly steady for a man whose self-satisfaction is at an all-time low.

"I don't know what I'd do if you weren't the one holding the leash, so to speak. Everyone else wants a piece of the Judge. You’re the only one who bothers to look at Damone."