The world swayed like a ship caught in a storm, reality bleeding in and out of focus as consciousness slipped through Daemon Sinners' fingers like smoke.
His red hair clung to his sweat-dampened forehead, the familiar ache behind his eyes magnified tenfold by whatever had happened to him.
Everything hurt, his ribs, his skull, the tender spot where his shoulder met his neck. But it was the voices that kept pulling him back from the void, urgent and sharp, cutting through the fog of his damaged mind.
"...need to move faster. The Prince won't...."
"....Asgard's security will be crawling all ov.."
The words fragmented, meaningless syllables that his brain couldn't quite piece together.
"Lilith specifically said..."
Two sets of footsteps, heavy breathing, the occasional grunt of effort.
They were carrying him, that much he could understand.
Strong hands gripped his arms, supporting his weight as his feet dragged uselessly across what felt like concrete.
His vision swam whenever he tried to open his eyes, the poor eyesight that had plagued him since childhood now compounded by whatever trauma had rendered him unconscious.
"Shit," one of the voices hissed, closer to his ear. "There's a patrol coming down the east corridor."
"Take the service elevator," the other replied, breathless. "We can't risk...."
The world lurched suddenly, and Daemon felt himself being pulled sideways.
One of his carriers stumbled, their grip loosening momentarily, and he heard the sharp crack of something breaking beneath their feet.
"Fuck!" The curse exploded from one of them, pain and frustration bleeding through the single word.
That was the last thing Daemon heard before the darkness claimed him completely, dragging him down into the depths of memory where the past waited like a predator in the shadows.
(Years earlier)
The sound of fists slamming against mahogany echoed through the mansion's thick walls, punctuated by raised voices and the occasional crash of breaking glass.
Daemon pressed his back against the corridor wall, the cigarette packet in his jacket pocket a comforting weight against his ribs.
At sixteen, he'd already learned that family meetings meant blood, either literally or figurativey.
Tonight's gathering of the city's most powerful crime families promised to be no different.
"You think you can just waltz into our territory and..."
"Negotiations were clear from the beginning."
"Respect has to be earned, not demanded..."
The voices from the conference room grew louder, more heated.
Daemon closed his eyes, took off his glasses and rubbed his temples, trying to ease the persistent ache that came with his deteriorating vision.
The doctors had warned him it would get worse, that the genetic condition that ran in his family would eventually rob him of his sight entirely.
For now, he could still make out shapes and movement, but reading fine print or recognizing faces at a distance had become increasingly difficult.
The shouting reached a crescendo, and something heavy crashed against the wall. Daemon had heard enough.
He pushed himself away from the wall and began walking toward the main staircase, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet.
Years of living in this world had taught him how to move without drawing attention, how to become a ghost when necessary.
"Leaving so soon, cute boy?"
The voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
Deep, amused, with a slight accent that spoke of expensive education and foreign influences.
Daemon turned slowly, squinting through the dim hallway lighting to make out the speaker.
Kensuke Himura stood leaning against the doorframe of the conference room, his white hair catching the light like spun silver.
He was tall, probably six feet or more and maybe nineteen or twenty, with the kind of lean build that suggested both strength and speed.
The tattoos that snaked up his neck were barely visible in the shadows, but Daemon knew they were there.
Everyone in their world knew about the heir to the Black Immortals and his distinctive markings.
"Got somewhere better to be?" Kensuke continued, his dark eyes glittering with something that might have been amusement or challenge.
Daemon felt heat rise in his cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or anger, he couldn't say.
Without a word, he raised his middle finger in Kensuke's direction, holding the gesture long enough to ensure it was seen and understood. Then he turned and continued toward the stairs, his spine straight and his pace deliberately unhurried.
Behind him, he heard Kensuke's low chuckle, but he didn't look back.
The upper floor was quieter, removed from the chaos of the meeting below.
Daemon made his way to the veranda that overlooked the mansion's gardens, grateful for the cool night air that helped clear his head.
The city sprawled before him, a tapestry of lights and shadows that he could still appreciate despite his failing vision.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew the cigarette packet, his fingers finding the familiar shape of a single cigarette.
The ritual was comforting; placing the cigarette between his lips, patting down his pockets for his lighter. But the lighter wasn't there. He checked again, then a third time, growing more frustrated with each empty pocket.
"Damn it," he muttered, pulling the cigarette from his mouth.
He stared at it for a moment, considering whether to head back inside to find a light or simply forget about it entirely.
The meeting would probably go on for hours, and he had no desire to listen to more posturing and threats.
He was about to flick the cigarette over the veranda railing when a voice spoke directly behind him.
"You shouldn't litter the grounds with that."
The voice was feminine, smooth as silk and just as dangerous.
Daemon spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He hadn't heard anyone approach, no footsteps, no rustle of clothing, nothing. The fact that someone had managed to sneak up on him was both impressive and terrifying.
Instinct took over.
His hand came up in a backhand strike aimed at where he thought the speaker's head might be, but before he could connect, fingers like steel wrapped around his wrist.
The world tilted suddenly, and he found himself airborne, his body describing a graceful arc through the air before slamming into the stone floor of the veranda.
Pain exploded through his back and shoulders, driving the breath from his lungs.
He tried to roll away, to regain his footing, but before he could move, something sharp pressed against his throat.
A heel.
Expensive, pointed, and currently keeping him pinned to the ground.
"That's no way to treat a lady," the voice said, and now he could hear the amusement in it, predatory and cold.
Daemon looked up, blinking to clear his vision.
The woman standing over him was stunning in the way that dangerous things often were.
Her dark hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and she wore a red gown that seemed to flow like liquid in the moonlight. But it was her eyes that captured his attention; one red as fresh blood, the other blue as winter ice.
The combination was unsettling and out of this world.
His gaze drifted lower, taking in the elegant line of her throat, the curves barely concealed by the dress's neckline.
The heel at his throat pressed harder, and he forced his eyes back to her face.
"See something you like?" she asked, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.
"Who are you?" Daemon managed, his voice hoarse from the pressure against his windpipe.
"Someone you'd do well not to cross," she replied. "Though I have to admit, I'm impressed. Most people don't even attempt to fight when they're caught off guard."
"Most people don't sneak up on others like some kind of..."
"Predator?" she finished, tilting her head. "That's exactly what I am, little Sinner. The question is, what are you?"
The use of his family name sent a chill down Daemon's spine.
This woman knew who he was, which meant she was either allied with his family or dangerous to them. Given the circumstances, he was betting on the latter.
"I'm someone who doesn't like being threatened," he said, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice.
Her laugh was like breaking glass, beautiful and sharp. "Threatened? Oh, darling, if I were threatening you, you'd know it. This is just... a conversation."
The heel lifted slightly, allowing him to breathe more freely, but she didn't step back.
Instead, she crouched down, bringing her face closer to his. This close, he could see the flecks of gold in her red eye, the way her blue eye seemed to glow in the darkness.
"Tell me, Daemon Sinners," she whispered, "do you know what happens to little boys who play with fire?"
Daemon smiled."The last person who called me little boy got carved up like a pig."
To his surprise, she grinned wider.