The Damned Path: Chronicles of Damien

The sun dipped below the horizon as I made my way to the address Marcus had given me. The streets were alive in that way only the underbelly of the city knew—full of shadows, whispers, and danger lurking around every corner.

I walked with purpose, hands buried deep in my coat pockets, fingers brushing against the cold metal of my gun. I didn't know if I'd need it, but old habits die hard.

By the time I reached the entrance to the old subway tunnels, night had fully claimed the city. A heavy steel door stood before me, rusted but strong. A single red bulb glowed overhead, casting an eerie light on the graffiti-covered walls.

I knocked once.

Nothing.

I knocked again, harder this time.

Finally, a panel slid open in the door, and a pair of sharp eyes studied me from the other side.

"Who sent you?" the man asked, voice rough like gravel.

"Marcus," I said calmly. "I'm here to see Evelyn."

The eyes narrowed. "Evelyn doesn't take walk-ins."

"Tell her Damien's here. She'll want to see me."

A long pause. The eyes flicked over me like they were weighing whether I was worth the trouble. Then, without a word, the panel slid shut, and I heard the grinding of metal as locks were undone.

The door creaked open, revealing a tall, broad man with a scar running down his cheek. He motioned for me to follow.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the roar of a crowd. The tunnel had been transformed—an underground arena surrounded by rusted fences and cheering spectators, all gathered to watch men and women beat each other to a pulp for cash.

I followed the man down a narrow passage, my eyes scanning everything. Fighters in bloodied bandages, gamblers waving stacks of money, and in the center, a steel cage where two men were locked in brutal combat.

"Wait here," the man grunted, and disappeared into a side room.

I leaned against the wall, watching as one fighter slammed his opponent into the cage, the crowd roaring with savage delight.

"You're either brave or stupid to show up here."

I turned at the voice.

She stood a few feet away—tall, lean, and with eyes sharp enough to cut steel. Evelyn. She was more dangerous-looking than I expected, dressed in black leather, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Maybe a bit of both," I said, offering a smirk.

She didn't smile back. "You've got a lot of nerve, Damien. Showing up here like you own the place. What do you want?"

"I want Kross."

That got her attention. Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something—pain, maybe, or anger—but it was gone just as quickly.

"And you think I'll help you?" she asked, stepping closer, close enough that I could see the scar running along her jawline.

"I think you want him dead as much as I do," I said quietly.

She studied me, her gaze cold and calculating. "A lot of people want Kross dead. Most of them end up in a ditch."

"I'm not most people."

She tilted her head, as if weighing my worth.

Finally, she smirked. "Alright, Damien. You want a war? Prove you're worth fighting with. Step into the cage. If you survive, maybe we'll talk."

I glanced at the fighters, now bloodied and broken.

"Fine," I said, cracking my knuckles. "Let's see if I still remember how to dance."