Damon stood in the center of the cramped apartment, surveying the bare walls.
Three months of unpaid rent.
Twelve hundred dollars total.
And in his pockets?
Absolute zero.
A hollow laugh escaped his throat.
It was a pathetic situation, yet a name suddenly drifted to the surface of his new mind, dredged up from the memories of the body’s original owner.
Eleanor.
His landlady.
At thirty-five, she was a divorced, independent woman who not only owned this entire residential building but also ran a high-end clothing boutique in midtown.
More importantly, she was blindingly ambitious.
That was what made her interesting.
Unlike Claire, Eleanor possessed assets he could actually leverage wealth, deep social connections, and a functioning business.
In short, she had potential.
There was just one glaring obstacle: Eleanor utterly despised the previous Damon.
To her, he was nothing more than a deadbeat twenty-year-old high school graduate who treated rent deadlines like polite suggestions.
His lips curled into a smile.
Well.
That’s about to change.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
“Damon!
Open up.
I know you’re in there!”
Recognising the sharp tone instantly, He walked over and turned the deadbolt.
Eleanor stood framed in the doorway, her arms tightly crossed over a tailored cream blazer.
Her dark hair was styled her makeup sharp, and her high heels granting her an intentionally dominant posture.
She cast a single, disgusted glance past his shoulder into the dim, miserable apartment.
“Three months, Damon,”
she started, her voice dropping to a freezing, zero-tolerance register.
“You owe me twelve hundred dollars.
I’ve been more than generous because of your sob stories, but my patience has officially run out.”
He didn’t bother reaching for his pockets.
He didn’t need to check his balance to know it was empty.
Seeing his unbothered silence, she let out an exasperated, heavy sigh.
“Nothing to say?
Figures.
If you don’t have the cash, forget it.
I’m not running a charity for dropouts.
Pack your bags.
I want you out by tomorrow morning.”
Damon quietly observed her furious expression.
“That’s it?”
Her brow furrowed.
“What?”
“You walked all the way up here just to tell me to pack?”
“I came because you owe me money!”
“And since I don’t have it?”
“Then you’re evicted.”
He nodded in slowly
“But there is cold out there.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“Did you honestly expect sympathy from me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
His smile returned.
“I just expected a businesswoman to be a little more patient.”
She let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Three months is patience, Damon.”
“Fair point.”
He shifted his gaze.
This time, he didn’t look at her expensive designer clothes.
He looked directly at her face.
Beneath the flawless foundation, faint shadows bruised the skin under her eyes.
Her expression was fiercely maintained, but the exhaustion underneath was a fracturing facade.
He tilted his head slightly, his tone dropping to a smooth, murmur.
“You look exhausted, Landlady .
”
Eleanor froze.
The subtle shift in her posture was microscopic, but to Damon, it was as loud as a gunshot.
“Excuse me?”
She paused, turning back fully to face him, her eyes flashing with a mix of offense and confusion.
“What did you just say?”
He didn’t flinch.
Instead, he casually leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest .
In the dim, flickering light of the hallway, Eleanor’s eyes involuntarily scanned him.
An uneasy sensation gripped her something was wrong.
The hollow-cheeked, fragile boy who used to stare at his own shoes whenever she spoke was entirely gone.
In his place stood someone with an unnaturally straight posture, clear skin, and an intense, penetrating gaze that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
“I said,” He repeated, his voice dangerously calm, “you look tired.”
Eleanor stared, her defenses rising.
“You’ve ignored me for years, and suddenly you’re concerned about my health?”
“Not concerned.”
“Then what?”
“Curious.”
She gripped her handbag tighter.
“About what?”
“About you.”
A deep crease formed between her eyebrows.
“You’re a strange kid.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
Damon adjusted his stance against the frame, narrowing the distance between them.
“You manage this complex.
You run a boutique.
You handle problematic tenants, demanding employees, aggressive suppliers…
and a bitter ex-husband.”
At the mention of her past, Her face hardened into stone.
“Don’t talk about him.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
His smile widened, revealing a glint of predatory satisfaction.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“That exact look.”
“You really are infuriating, you know that?” She snapped.
“And you’re furious.”
“I’m always stressed.”
“No”
He softy countered, shaking his head.
“You’re just tired of pretending.”
For a long moment, the hallway fell into a heavy silence.
She scoffed, trying to shake off the sudden weight in the air.
“You think you understand me because you read a few gossip forums about my life?”
“No.”
“Then stop acting like a psychoanalyst.”
“I don’t need to understand your past, Eleanor.”
He locked his eyes onto hers, stripping away any lingering sense of youthful innocence.
“I only need to know what you want right now.”
She went completely still.
He took a step forward, his voice a whisper.
“You want your boutique to scale.
You want financial dominance.
And more than anything…”
He paused, letting the words hang in the air.
“…you want to completely erase the shadow of your ex-husband.”
Her face drained of color for a fraction of a second.
It was all the confirmation he needed.
“Who the hell told you that?” she whispered sharply.
“No one.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I observe things.
I observe people.”
She stared at him as if looking at a ghost.
“You’re twenty years old.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been penniless since the day you moved in.”
“True.”
“You owe me twelve hundred dollars.”
“I’m aware.”
“And somehow, you’re standing there trying to dictate my own life to me?”
His grin turned dark.
“I’m not dictating.”
He leaned in just an inch closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming the narrow hallway.
“I’m simply gambling.”
She held his gaze, trapped by an inexplicable gravity.
“And if you’re wrong?”
“Then you’ll evict me right now.”
“And if you’re right?”
His eyes seemed to absorb the hallway light, turning pitch-black.
“Then you’ll keep standing exactly where you are.”
He watched the subtle quiver in her lower lip.
It was beautiful.
He didn’t need to map out every secret in her head just yet; he only needed to find the psychological fracture.
Slowly, deliberately, He allowed a microscopic thread of his demonic Aura to bleed out into the air.
It wasn’t an aggressive blast ,just a subtle, suffocating ripple of ancient power.
Eleanor’s breathing hitched instantly.
She didn’t consciously register the magic, but her pupils dilated.
Her gaze remained completely locked onto his, unable to sever the connection.
“Why…
why are you looking at me like that?”
she asked, her voice losing its icy corporate edge, replaced by something dangerously fragile.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re…” She cut herself off, her throat going dry.
“Like I’m what, Eleanor?”
She abruptly looked away, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“I don’t know.”
He withdrew the aura, satisfied.
He didn’t need to push any harder today.
The demonic influence wasn’t meant to mind-control her it was simply meant to ensure that, from this moment on, he was utterly impossible to ignore.
Eleanor felt the ambient air shift again.
The oppressive warmth in the hallway began to dissipate, but her eyes lingered on Damon for a beat too long.
His clothes were still cheap, washed-out rags.
His bank account was still empty.
He was still the deadbeat tenant who owed her twelve hundred dollars.
So why couldn’t she bring herself to turn around and walk away?
Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her handbag.
What is wrong with me?
She glanced toward the dark staircase.
She should have stormed out five minutes ago.
Instead, she was rooted to the spot.
Damon noticed her internal conflict.
“You’re still here.”
Her eyes snapped back to him, defensive.
“I’m leaving.”
“Then leave.”
She frowned, frustrated by her own hesitation.
“You’re thoroughly enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“A little bit,” He admitted candidly.
“You’re…
you aren’t the same person.”
Damon’s smile faded into something cold and unfathomable.
“No.
I’m not.”
For the first time since she had known him, Eleanor looked genuinely frightened.
“What happened to you?”
He held her gaze, offering no warmth.
“Nothing.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
She studied his face for a few agonizing seconds, searching for the boy she used to bully.
Finding nothing but a wall of absolute confidence, she finally turned on her heel.
“Tomorrow,” she commanded.
Damon raised an eyebrow.
“Tomorrow?”
“The rent.”
“Oh.”
Her high heels clicked sharply against the concrete floor as she marched down the hall.
But just before she reached the stairwell, she stopped.
Without turning around, she threw one last cold warning over her shoulder.
“Have it ready, Damon.” He smiled into the shadows.
“I’ll try my best.”
“You’d better.”
With that, her footsteps hurried down the stairs, and the heavy fire door clicked shut behind her.
Damon stood in the doorway for a long moment before letting out a low chuckle.
She had marched up here fully prepared to throw him out onto the street.
Instead, she had fled without collecting a single cent.
Interesting.
He glanced down the empty, dark hallway, his eyes gleaming with demonic anticipation.
“Let’s see what you’re really hiding, Eleanor.”