In the aftermath of a fierce skirmish with a demon, Damian Denéver, his frame beset with wounds and his countenance marred by pain, stood amidst the wreckage, a solitary figure in the dim light of dusk. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of magic expended.

As footsteps approached, Damian's instincts flared, his senses sharpening with a primal alertness. His lips curled back, revealing the gleam of his sharp teeth, ready to defend himself against any potential threat. But as recognition dawned upon him, he relaxed his stance, though the tension still lingered in his sinewy frame.

"You could have at least warned me it was you," he grumbled, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and frustration, yet tinged with a hint of amusement.