Smack. Smack.
A sharp pain flared across a woman's face, the sting reverberating through her skull.
She sat bound to a rickety wooden chair in a freezing grey room. There was little light—only a single overhead bulb flickering with a lazy, dying hum. Her long, light brown hair lay in a tangled mess. Her wrists and ankles throbbed beneath rough ropes, and blood trickled from the spot where the latest blow had landed.
"Why are you doing this?" she cried, her voice breaking as hot tears streamed down her cheeks.
In front of her stood a man.
His features were angular and harsh—cut from stone. His long, black hair was messily swept back, as though styled just enough to seem effortless. He wore a pristine black jacket and tailored trousers, spotless and sharp. His eyes were pale and unreadable—a dead stare devoid of empathy.
Leaning silently against a wall of rusted lockers was a girl. Not very tall, with blonde hair pulled neatly behind her ears, her eyes shimmered with a sorrow that hinted at regret. Perhaps, even at shared guilt.
"You know why I'm doing this," the man said coolly, grabbing the woman by the hair. She shrieked as the sudden tug brought fresh pain.
"We have your daughter. Give us the money, and you both go free. No need to make this more complicated."
It was all a lie.
Damien—this man in black—had not captured the woman's daughter.
He didn't need to.
Sure, Damien was more than capable of such abductions when necessary, but he had something better than raw leverage: understanding.
He understood that love makes people stupid, closing their eyes to harsh truths. All he needed to do was present a believable threat, and the rest would unravel naturally.
The woman before him was Mrs. Shirley—the mayor's wife.
She was the perfect target: wealthy, surrounded by protection, and emotionally soft. Her husband had been entangled with the organization for years, making her a target.
Thus, sending one particular message became Damien's and Summer's job.
Mrs. Shirley's cries grew louder, bouncing off the dull walls—loud, desperate, messy.
"Not Laela! Not my daughter! What have you monsters done to her!"
She kicked and twisted, trying to break free from the ropes. Her skin burned as it rubbed against the unyielding restraints.
The man's grip tightened on her hair. Leaning in close—close enough for her to catch the scent of expensive cologne that didn't belong in such a grim setting—he said in a lowered, almost gentle tone:
"Oh, you see, Mrs. Shirley… we've done nothing to your daughter. In fact, you've done something. By not calling your husband, you're the one killing her."
A subtle, empty smile played across his face.
"Every minute we waste here is another minute your daughter goes without food. Without water."
A small whimper escaped her.
Damien glanced at the watch on his wrist—the other hand was still entangled in her hair. Its polished glass caught the lamplight, a quiet counterpoint to the chaos.
"We've been here a long time. Two days, actually. I wonder how much longer… Laela, yeah. Laela can last."
He turned his head slightly to observe the girl leaning against the lockers. She looked young—no older than seventeen.
By contrast, Damien appeared in his early twenties, yet no wrinkles marred his suit, nor did violence soften his tone.
"What do you think, Summer?" he asked casually. "Is Mrs. Shirley killing her daughter?"
Mrs. Shirley turned to focus on the girl.
Summer didn't meet her gaze. Her head tilted ever so slightly—a silent nod that Mrs. Shirley clung to as if it were the gospel.
Summer was the lesser evil in this bleak room. Young and sad-eyed, she didn't seem to relish any of this. Mrs. Shirley saw that clearly.
So when Summer agreed with that fragile nod, Mrs. Shirley believed every word Damien said.
Of course, Damien had known she would.
He'd worked with Summer long enough—two years of witnessing that haunted look in her eyes.
She hated this work; it was her role.
She never lied to the victims, and her presence made people trust her.
A sharp wail then ripped from Mrs. Shirley's throat.
"Fine, you monsters! Call my husband!"
She hadn't wanted to worry Harold. He was the mayor—he had important things to do. He'd reminded her countless times not to disturb him during work hours.
But this was different; Laela's life was on the line. He'd abandon everything once he knew.
Right?
Damien's eyes widened in mock surprise. For a brief moment, genuine emotion crept onto his face like sunlight piercing dark clouds.
"Great! You're doing great, Mrs. Shirley. We're so proud of you!" he said with a bright, mocking smile, releasing her hair.
He turned to Summer once more. "Aren't we proud of her, Summer?"
The girl didn't move.
Her arms remained crossed, and her face was distant. Her eyes sank deeper into regret, but after several tense seconds, under the unyielding weight of Damien's stare, she finally spoke.
"Yes," she whispered.
The word, stale and lifeless, was all Mrs. Shirley needed.
"My daughter…" she said shakily. "After this, will my daughter and I be released unharmed?"
"Of course you will!" Damien replied with a grin. "What do you take me for—the devil? All we want is your money!"
Mrs. Shirley sat up straighter. With her shoulder, she wiped her bloody face and dabbed futilely at her wrinkled, stained dress with her chained hands.
"Alright… call my husband," she said.
"Alrighty!" Damien sang cheerily.
He stepped back and produced a cellphone from his jacket pocket.
A moment of tense silence fell.
Mrs. Shirley stared straight ahead, her muscles frozen. Fear did not grip her for herself—it was for Laela.
She turned one last time toward Summer.
"Everything will be okay… right?"
Summer looked at her. Mrs. Shirley searched Summer's eyes for hope, but found nothing—only a cold, detached void.
Damien's voice rang out from the other side of the room, now playful rather than cold.
"Quiet, quiet," he said with a grin. "It's ringing!"
One ring. Two. Three.
With each tone, Mrs. Shirley's heartbeat thundered in her chest. Her husband worked long hours and barely came home anymore. She didn't even know if he still loved her.
But for Laela… he'd answer.
"Please," she whispered, eyes closing tight. "Just this once."
Then, on the fourth ring, a click.
A dry, stiff voice crackled through the speaker.
"Honey, what have I told you about bothering me at work? I can't take time away to fulfill any of your needs!"
Mrs. Shirley flinched.
Damien raised his hand calmly, signaling her to keep silent. With a low whistle, he muttered, "Whoa. What a charmer we have here."
From the other end, the mayor's tone shifted. "Wha—who is this? What have you done with my wife?"
She longed to speak—to scream—but the man's hand kept her in check.
And she wouldn't disobey; not when they held Laela.
"Calm down, Harold," Damien said, walking a few paces as if engaged in a casual call. "Your wife is right here."
He shifted his hand, giving her a thumbs-up.
Tears clung to her lashes as she gasped, "Honey! Just do what the men say— they have our daugh—"
Bang.
A flash of light, a burst of sound, and blood.
Damien swiftly drew a gun from his pocket and fired mid-sentence.
Mrs. Shirley's head snapped back, her body jerked violently from the impact, and she crumpled to the floor like fabric slipping from a chair.
Red spread quickly across the concrete. Her blood mixed with rust stains, and her white dress—still rumpled—became soaked in crimson.
On the line, Harold's voice cracked with fury and panic.
"Did you just—did you just shoot my wife?! You have my daughter! What is going on?! I swear I'm going to find you!"
Damien pressed the cellphone to his lips, his voice soft and taunting.
"Oops. My finger slipped. I guess that happens when people meddle in other people's business."
He paused, letting the mounting horror swell in Harold's chest.
"Leave the organization alone, Harold, or your daughter's next."
He ended the call.
Silence fell again—the crackle of the lamplight and the distant drip of water were the only sounds.
Damien stared at the body. No regret. No sorrow. He'd done this too many times. It didn't move him anymore—in fact, it satisfied him.
What a day to be alive, he thought with a smirk.
Then he turned toward Summer—and froze.
Summer stood before him, no longer leaning or passive. Her eyes, once full of sorrow, now burned with resolve. And in her hands... a gun, aimed steadily at him, finger poised on the trigger.
"Oooh," Damien drawled, masking the spike of fear in his chest. "What do we have here?"
He dropped his weapon and slowly raised his empty hands. His heart pounded louder than the gunshot he'd fired—not from guilt, but from the thrill of risk. Damien had always thrived on survival and control. And now? He had none.
Her hands trembled slightly, unaccustomed to this. Damien had never let her kill—he liked keeping that power for himself.
"You have to die!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "A devil like you can't live in this world!"
The name didn't hurt him—it was exactly who he was. Hell, he liked it, but he didn't like dying.
So, with a little chuckle and a shrug, he gave her one final desperate smile.
"Have I ever told you… that you're my sister?"
It was a lie. Of course, it was a lie.
Damien had no family—not by blood. He'd been raised by the organization- by blades and orders, not names and warmth- the same as her.
Yet he knew what she craved—a connection, any connection. If there was a way to stall her… to plant a seed of doubt…
It was this.
For a moment, her arms trembled even harder. Then, a smirk tugged at her lip.
"Did you think that would work?"
Bang.
A sudden burst of pain, a flash, then nothing.
Damien collapsed to the floor, arms slack, eyes wide open.
Dead.