Damon walked back toward his apartment with his hands buried deep in his pockets.
The neon-lit streets of Vesper were still vibrating with nightlife around him, but his mind was entirely elsewhere.
Eleanor had agreed to let him inspect her boutique tomorrow.
Small progress.
But progress nonetheless.
He caught his reflection in the dark, glossy window of a closed storefront as he passed.
His physical appearance had undeniably improved since his chaotic arrival in this world.
His skin no longer carried that translucent, sickly hue of death, and the hollow, bruised exhaustion around his eyes had faded into a sharp focus.
But it wasn’t enough.
He clicked his tongue in irritation.
“Too slow.”
His mortal vessel was still fundamentally weak.
That was the real problem not the rent, and not the lack of money.
A weak vessel severely limited his choices, forcing him to rely on mortal circumstances instead of absolutely controlling them.
He utterly despised being weak.
In his previous life, his singular strength had forced the universe to adjust to his whims.
Now, he had to adjust to the rules of a fragile world.
His lips curled into a faint, dark smile.
“Temporary.”
His primordial demonic nature had survived the reincarnation process.
Intimacy could directly nourish his demonic essence, and that stolen nourishment could gradually repair, reshape, and strengthen his human body.
One encounter had barely been enough to produce a minor physical upgrade, but the core principle had been absolute.
He didn’t need to guess anymore.
He simply needed more.
His thoughts returned briefly to Eleanor.
Eleanor was far more guarded.
High pride, bitter experience, and fierce self-reliance protected her from being easily manipulated by standard means.
That made her a difficult target.
It also made her infinitely more valuable.
He wasn’t interested in breaking the traits that made Eleanor useful.
Her fierce ambition, her sharp business sense, and her stubborn independence were precisely what made her worth cultivating for his future harem.
He just needed to exercise patience.
“One step at a time,” he murmured.
By the time Damon reached his apartment complex, the city streets had finally fallen quiet.
He entered the depressing building, climbed the creaking stairs, and pushed open his door.
The miserable, cramped room greeted him exactly as he had left it.
He looked around the barren space, his eyes cold.
“This place is starting to severely annoy me.”
He dropped onto the old, sagging couch.
For several seconds, he simply sat in the darkness, absorbing the silence.
Then, he leaned his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow.
I will deal with tomorrow, tomorrow.
For now, this vessel needs rest.
Morning arrived quietly.
Pale sunlight slipped through the grime of the dirty window, falling squarely across hid face.
His eyes snapped open.
For several seconds, he stared blankly at the cracked ceiling.
Then, his stomach let out a loud, violent growl.
He let out a heavy sigh.
“Right.”
Food.
Yet another highly inconvenient human requirement.
He sat up, stretching his limbs until his spine popped, before standing.
His body felt noticeably better than yesterday.
“Somewhat improving,” he muttered, letting out a low breath.
“But still nowhere near enough to unleash my true capabilities.”
His thoughts naturally drifted back toward Claire.
She had been his first successful baseline experiment.
More importantly, she had already experienced the intoxicating touch of his demonic aura.
He wanted to know exactly what had happened to her afterward.
Had the dark corruption faded over time?
Had it taken deeper root in her soul?
Was she still obsessing over him?
His lips stretched into a predatory smile.
“There’s only one way to find out.”
He grabbed his worn jacket and left the apartment.
Vesper was already fully awake.
Corporate workers hurried along the concrete sidewalks, delivery trucks gridlocked the intersections, and local shops threw open their doors for the morning rush.
He walked through the chaos without a single hint of hurry.
He watched the swarming people around him like an apex predator observing a flock of sheep.
After nearly twenty minutes of walking, he finally crossed into the North District.
The Sweet Wheat Bakery appeared ahead, nestled tightly between a colourful florist and a small, modern café.
He slowed his pace, his instincts immediately flaring.
Something was wrong.
The bakery should have been utterly swarmed with customers by this hour.
Instead, the quaint interior looked strangely dead and quiet.
Only a few dim lights were turned on inside.
No customers stood near the glass display counters.
No ambient music played from the speakers.
Even the usual bustling movement of bakers behind the kitchen windows was completely missing.
His eyebrows narrowed.
He stepped up and pushed open the heavy front door.
A small, brass bell rang sharply above his head.
“Claire?”
No answer.
He stepped fully into the empty dining area.
The scent of baked bread, vanilla sugar, and dark coffee still hung thick in the air.
“Claire?”
he called out again, his voice echoing slightly.
Still nothing.
Damon scanned the empty room.
“That’s strange.”
Suddenly, a faint, rustling noise came from right behind the serving counter.
The distinct sound of something heavy being shifted.
His eyes narrowed into slits.
He silently glided toward the counter, his steps completely soundless.
Then, he saw her.
A young woman stood directly behind the register with her back completely turned toward him.
She possessed the exact same rich brown hair and the same slender, delicate figure.
Damon’s tense muscles instantly relaxed.
“You’re working remarkably early,” he noted smoothly.
The woman didn’t answer him, continuing to arrange the display.
He smiled, a dark amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Claire?”
Nothing.
Absolute silence.
He moved closer, stepping through the swinging employee gate.
Perhaps she hadn’t heard his footsteps over her work, or perhaps she was intentionally ignoring him to play hard to get.
He stepped directly behind the counter, closing the distance between them until he was right behind her.
“Busy?”
Still no response.
Without hesitating, he reached out and firmly caught her around the slender curve of her waist, pulling her back against his chest before she could even attempt to turn around.
“Morning.”
The reaction was instantaneous and violent.
The woman went completely rigid against him.
He froze, his calculations immediately resetting.
Something is wrong.
She didn’t react like Claire at all.
Claire’s soul had vibrated with submission; this girl’s body exploded with terror and panic.
The woman twisted around sharply, breaking his grip with a desperate shove.
“Let go of me!” she shrieked.
He released her instantly, stepping back with his hands resting casually at his sides.
She stumbled backward against the edge of the industrial counter, grabbing it for support.
Her face was completely pale, her chest heaving with uneven, panicked breaths.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, her wide, furious eyes locked squarely onto his face.
“Who the hell are you?!”
Damon stood completely still, calmly studying her face.
She looked remarkably, terrifyingly similar to Claire.
The exact same shade of brown hair.
A nearly identical facial structure.
The same striking eye shape.
At a casual glance, the resemblance was completely uncanny.
But now that he was standing a mere foot away, looking directly into her eyes, the biological differences were glaringly obvious.
She lacked the soft, yielding aura of his first target.
She wasn’t Claire.
His expression remained perfectly smooth, completely devoid of guilt or panic.
“You aren’t Claire.”
“No, I’m not!”
Her voice shook violently with a mixture of anger and lingering shock.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
“I thought you were someone else,” He replied, his tone entirely conversational.
“You thought I was Claire, so you just casually walk back here and grab me?!” she spat, her knuckles turning white against the counter.
He didn’t bother answering immediately.
He looked past her, scanning the completely empty kitchen in the back.
“Where is she?”
The woman’s expression hardened into pure disbelief.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Yes.”
“You just snuck back here, scared the living hell out of me, and you’re casually asking me where Claire is?!”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“I told you already.
I thought you were someone else.
The mistake has been acknowledged.”
“That doesn’t make it even remotely better!”
“No,” He answered without a single shred of hesitation.
The blunt, unapologetic answer caught her completely off guard.
The anger in her eyes flickered with confusion.
She looked him over again, trying to read him.
He didn’t appear nervous.
He didn’t look embarrassed.
He didn’t even seem particularly frightened by the threat of her calling the police or screaming for help.
That absolute lack of fear only made her feel significantly more uncomfortable.
“You…” she stammered, crossing her arms defensively.
“Who exactly are you?”
“Damon.”
“Damon what?”
“Just Damon.”
She frowned deeply, her eyes scanning his face.
“Do you actually know Claire?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She helped me when I needed it,” He replied simply.
The girl’s eyes shifted slightly, a spark of recognition crossing her features.
“Wait…
you’re the guy?
The one she told me about?”
His attention instantly sharpened.
“She mentioned me to you?”
“A little.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“Just…
that she helped a guy who had collapsed on the street near the alley,” the girl muttered, her defensive posture softening just a fraction.
He nodded once.
“That’s me.”
The woman continued staring at him, clearly unnerved by his intense presence.
Then, her gaze pointedly moved toward the floor behind the counter.
“Look, you can’t just walk behind here.
This is employee only.”
“I know.”
“And you definitely can’t just put your hands on random people.”
His expression didn’t change a single bit.
“Understood.”
She let out a frustrated breath, clearly exasperated by how little emotional reaction she was getting out of him.
He was like a brick wall.
“You really don’t have anything else to say for yourself?
No apology?”
He ignored the question, glancing toward the locked front display.
“I came here specifically to see Claire.
She’s not here.”
“She’s not.”
“When will she be back?”
“I don’t know,” the girl said, her voice dropping into a slightly muted, stressed tone.
He studied her face one last time.
“What is your name?”
The woman stared back at him, her defenses instantly locking back up.
“Why should I tell you?”
“I’m curious,” He murmured, his lips curving into a faint, dangerous smile.
“Well, I’m not.”