The hideout welcomed Damon like an old confidant—silent, watchful, reeking of smoke, metal, and secrets. The steel door clanged shut behind him, cutting off the outside world. He moved with measured steps, shedding his jacket, his presence alone enough to make the shadows in the room seem to stiffen.His assistant—always loyal, always waiting—stood at the far side of the room, posture straight, hands behind his back. His eyes flicked to the bandage on Damon’s arm, the faint trace of blood that had seeped through.“Mr. Alejandro,” the assistant said quietly, voice laced with concern though carefully masked with formality. “How’s your wound?”Damon’s sharp eyes lifted. For a long moment, he said nothing, letting the silence do the work of a warning. Then, with slow precision, he sat on the leather chair at the center of the room, stretching out his arm as though to display both the injury and his disregard for it.“It’s nothing,” he said flatly, voice a blend of indifference and authori
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