“You’re touching me.”
The words drifted through the cool night air.
The leader’s grip tightened, knuckles whitening through his leather glove.
“Think you’re funny, kid?
I’ll snap your collarbone right here—”
He didn’t finish.
Damon’s right hand shot up.
His fingers wrapped around the man’s wrist.
No hesitation.
No wind-up.
He simply squeezed.
A sickening crack echoed off the brick walls.
The radius bone fractured under immense, unnatural pressure.
The leader gasped—choked, agonized.
His grip went slack.
His knees buckled.
Damon caught him before he fell.
Something stirred inside him.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Pleasure.
A faint smile touched his lips.
He’d almost forgotten how satisfying it was to hold overwhelming strength.
He grabbed the back of the man’s head and drove his knee upward.
CRUNCH.
Nose cartilage exploded into pulp and blood.
The leader reeled backward, spraying crimson across the damp pavement.
His eyes rolled back.
He crumpled against the wall.
“Boss!”
The remaining three froze.
Their minds couldn’t process it—a twenty-year-old kid breaking a trained operative in under two seconds.
“Kill him!” one yelled, pulling a heavy baton.
Two men rushed forward.
The first swung in a broad arc at Damon’s temple.
Damon didn’t duck.
Didn’t step back.
To his heightened perception, the swing was agonizingly slow.
Clumsy.
Predictable.
He ducked inside the weapon’s reach.
Closed the distance instantly.
Drove his open palm into the attacker’s throat.
THUMP.
The windpipe collapsed.
The man’s eyes bulged, breath cut off entirely.
Damon grabbed him by the vest, spun him, and slammed him face-first into the rusted iron drainpipe.
Metal groaned.
Teeth shattered.
The man slid unconscious into the gutter, leaving a dark smear on the brickwork.
“Die, you bastard!”
The third operative closed from behind—a military-style boot kick at Damon’s lower spine.
Without turning, Damon shifted his weight and pivoted on his left heel.
The boot whistled past his coat by a hairsbreadth.
Before the attacker recovered, Damon seized his ankle, pulled him forward, and swept his trailing leg out.
The man crashed back-first onto cobblestones.
The air left his lungs in a rush.
Damon didn’t pause.
He raised his right heel and drove it down onto the kneecap.
SNAP.
A horrific scream tore through the alley.
The joint bent backward at a grotesque angle.
The man thrashed—then went still as agony short-circuited his system.
Three men down.
Less than twenty seconds.
The fourth staggered back two paces.
His hands trembled as he reached into his jacket for a concealed firearm.
His face was dead white.
Eyes wide with horror.
This wasn’t a fight.
This wasn’t a brawl.
It was a slaughter.
“Stay—stay back!” he stammered, fumbling with his holster.
Damon turned slowly to face him.
He wasn’t out of breath.
His heart rate was steady.
His posture relaxed.
But his face was no longer that of a calm, handsome youth.
A chuckle bubbled up from his chest.
It expanded into a smooth, terrifying laugh that echoed off the damp walls.
His eyes, lit by the distant streetlamp, gleamed with ancient, inhuman malice.
The dark essence within him stirred, reacting to the metallic tang of blood.
He hadn’t felt this alive since his awakening.
The blood.
The screams.
The helplessness in their eyes.
It awakened something he’d kept buried beneath the weakness of this human body.
He laughed again.
Not loudly.
Not wildly.
Just a low, satisfied sound.
These men weren’t opponents.
They were prey.
For the first time since reincarnation, the old instinct returned.
The instinct to dominate.
To hunt.
To enjoy watching something weaker realize it has no chance.
“Is that a gun?” Damon murmured, stepping over a puddle of blood.
“Draw it.
Let me see how fast your fingers are.”
The man screamed in panic and tore the pistol from his holster.
Before his finger touched the trigger, Damon covered ten feet in the blink of an eye.
His hand clamped over the gun’s slide.
His fingers dug into steel with crushing force, locking it out of battery.
His other hand seized the man’s throat and lifted his hundred-and-eighty-pound frame off the ground with one arm.
The man dropped the gun.
His legs kicked uselessly.
He clawed at Damon’s iron grip.
Damon stared into his bulging eyes.
His smirk widened until it felt sharp enough to draw blood.
“You thought you were the wolves in this city,” he whispered near the man’s ear.
His voice carried a resonant echo that chilled straight into the soul.
“You didn’t realize you walked into a demon’s den.”
He slammed the man onto the hood of a parked dumpster.
Metal crumpled.
Glass shattered.
The man went limp, chest heaving as he gasped for oxygen.
Broken.
Damon walked back toward the start of the alley.
The leader—the one who’d grabbed his collar—was propped against the brick wall, clutching his shattered wrist and ruined face.
Bleeding heavily.
Coughing blood.
Still conscious.
He watched Damon approach.
His body trembled violently against the cold wall.
The arrogance, the professional authority, the quiet threats—all of it beaten out of him.
Damon crouched in front of him, elbows on his knees.
“Who sent you?” he asked softly.
“Julian…” The leader wheezed, voice choked with blood.
“Julian Sterling… Mr.
Sterling…”
“I know.” Damon’s tone was smooth.
“Call him.”
The leader blinked through swollen, bloody eyes.
“What?”
“Your phone.” His voice dropped into a command that left no room for hesitation.
“Pull it out.
Dial his number.
Now.”
The leader’s hands shook as he reached into his back pocket with his uninjured arm.
He fumbled with his smartphone, unlocked it with bloody fingers, found Julian Sterling’s contact, and hit dial.
He held the phone out with a trembling hand.
Damon took it smoothly.
Placed it against his ear.
The line rang twice.
“Is it done?” Julian’s voice came – bored and Impatient.
“Did he understand the message?”
Damon looked around the alley.
Four broken bodies.
Pooling blood.
The terrified leader shivering at his feet.
His smile returned.
Dark.
Cold.
Utterly arrogant.
“Julian,” he spoke into the receiver.
Silence.
The casual indifference vanished instantly.
“Who is this?” Julian’s voice hardened.
Damon glanced down at the trembling man beside him.
The man’s eyes widened.
He finally understood.
Damon hadn’t called to negotiate.
He’d called so Julian could hear exactly who he’d sent after the wrong person.
“You wanted me to stay away from Eleanor,” Damon said quietly.
His voice dropped into a chilling cadence that seemed to vibrate through the speaker.
He looked down at the leader bleeding on the pavement.
His smile widened.
“If you have something to say, Julian… come say it to my face.”