The bar was alive the mont Marcus pushed through its double doors. Noise slamd into him first—laughter, drunken shouts, the clang of mugs, the crack of dice against wooden tables. Music drifted above it all, sharp and steady, violins weaving with the deep pulse of drums, a rhythm that seed to grip the heart and drag it along.
Marcus paused just long enough to take in the scene. Lantern light flickered across the crowded room, bouncing from bottles stacked high behind the bar to the polished floor sticky with spilled liquor. Shadows and color danced in equal asure, and the air was thick with sweat, perfu, and the bitter tang of strong ale.
He stepped in fully, slipping into the flow of the crowd with practiced ease. Shoulders brushed him, n staggered past, won laughed loud and bright. For a mont, Marcus let himself loosen. His head bobbed to the beat, his hand tapped against his thigh, and when the drums picked up, he even let out a small laugh.
"Why not?" he muttered, lips quirking into a grin as he let the music carry his steps. "It’s good music."
He moved like soone who belonged, sliding past tables, weaving between drunken nobles and common rogues alike. His clothes were worn, torn in places from fights too many to count. To most, they would’ve looked like rags—but the man wearing them carried himself with such reckless charisma, such unbothered confidence, that the rags sohow turned into a statent.
And the won noticed.
It started with one—a lady in crimson silk with a voice like honey, who caught sight of his tied-back hair, ssy yet deliberate, the way a man’s hair fell when he’d lived too much life to care but still knew how to make it work. She leaned against him with a playful smirk, words tumbling from her lips like smoke. Then another ca, drawn by the sa reckless youth in his face, the sharpness in his crimson eyes, the devil-may-care smile that promised both danger and amusent.
Soon, Marcus found himself surrounded. Their perfu clung to him as soft hands brushed against his arms, his chest, his shoulder. They laughed at his jokes, at the teasing words he threw so casually, at the shaless way he flirted. He let it happen. Why wouldn’t he? They brought him drinks—wine, ale, liquor strong enough to burn his throat—and he took each one, savoring the fire in his belly.
But beneath the charm, beneath the laughter and the half-hearted touches, Marcus’s gaze was elsewhere.
From the mont he stepped in, he had seen it: a corridor in the back, draped with heavy curtains of velvet red, guarded by two hulking n with arms like tree trunks. They stood unmoving, their eyes sweeping over the crowd with the cold indifference of killers on duty. Marcus watched closely as a few n—wealthy, smug, reeking of coin and power—slipped past, nodding to the guards before disappearing through the curtains.
That was all the confirmation he needed. His prey was there.
He leaned back in his chair, letting one of the won whisper sothing in his ear, though his mind wasn’t on her. His grin widened as a thought slid into place, smooth and wicked.
"Ladies," he said suddenly, lifting his mug and clinking it against one of theirs. "How about a little fun?"
They leaned closer, giggling, intrigued. He didn’t have to explain much. These weren’t refined courtesans—they were whores, wild and unpredictable, ready to sink their claws into whatever they pleased. And Marcus, with his silver tongue and untad grin, didn’t have to push hard. A few sly words, a glance toward the guards, and their laughter turned sharper, more dangerous.
The mont ca quick. One of the won stumbled dramatically, crashing against one of the guards with a squeal and spilling wine down his chest. The other shrieked in mock anger, slapping the second guard across the face as though he were to bla. In an instant, chaos blood—shouting, cursing, drunken laughter from the crowd egging it on.
And Marcus? He simply slipped away.
With a casual grace, he moved through the curtains while the guards struggled to shove the won back. No one noticed him vanish. No one cared.
The sound of the bar dulled behind him as the heavy fabric fell shut, muffling music and laughter into a distant hum. A corridor stretched out ahead, dimly lit by torches mounted along the walls. The air was heavier here, thick with the stench of sothing foul.
Marcus stopped just inside, his nose flaring.
That scent.
Coppery, sharp, thick with malice. The stench of blood twisted into sothing unnatural. A Blood Demon.
He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling slow, letting it sink in. His lips curled into a wolfish grin, eyes snapping open once more, glowing faintly in the dim torchlight.
"Well," he muttered, his voice low and amused, "looks like I found you."
Marcus strolled down the corridor, his boots striking the stone floor with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The air grew heavier with each step, saturated with that distinct tallic tang that only demons carried with them. He didn’t hurry. He didn’t sneak. In fact, his lips curled into a grin as he began to whistle a lighthearted tune, the kind of whistle one might use on a lazy afternoon walk, not while entering the lair of sothing monstrous.
Finally, he reached a heavy wooden doorway. Voices leaked through the cracks—calm, refined, the tones of n talking about business, coin, perhaps politics. Marcus tilted his head, listening briefly, then pushed forward without hesitation. The door creaked open, and the mont he stepped inside, silence swallowed the room.
The office was lavish. Polished floors, velvet drapes, and a large desk that glead with expensive wood polish. Two n dressed in rich attire—nobles or rchants by the look of them—sat before the desk, glasses of wine in hand, their laughter dying the instant Marcus entered. Their eyes narrowed with disgust as they took in his appearance: ragged clothes, ssy bun, a faint stain of dried blood clinging to him like a badge. He didn’t belong here, and they knew it.
But Marcus’s attention wasn’t on them. His eyes slid past, locking onto the man seated behind the desk. A man who looked to be in his forties, with neatly trimd dark hair and a well-kept beard. His attire scread wealth, but his face—smooth, youthful, almost too perfect—told Marcus all he needed.
The grin on Marcus’s face widened. His onyx eyes glead like fire catching wind.
The man behind the desk leaned back, amusent flashing in his eyes as he regarded Marcus. He smiled, polished and polite.
"Well now," the man said, voice smooth like silk. "You seem lost, stranger. Perhaps I can help you?"
Marcus let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking his head as if the words were a pathetic joke. "Cut the bullshit," he said, his tone light but edged like a blade. "Turn already."
The man’s brows furrowed, feigning confusion. "I’m not sure I understand what you—"
Marcus didn’t let him finish. He shrugged lazily. "Fine. I’ll do it myself."
In the blink of an eye, his hand moved. A flash of steel cut through the air as he flicked a throwing knife forward. Dead center. The blade buried itself in the man’s forehead with a sickening thunk. The head snapped back, and the body slumped against the chair, blood trickling down across his neatly trimd beard.
The two nobles shot up from their seats, screams tearing from their throats. One dropped his glass, crimson wine spilling across the polished floor like blood, while the other pointed with a shaking hand as if Marcus had just committed the most heinous cri before their eyes.
Marcus groaned, running a hand down his face. "Oh, shut the hell up," he snapped, glaring at them with annoyance. "Save the drama. No use crying over a demon."
The n froze, confusion breaking through their terror. "A... a demon?" one stamred. But before the words could hang long in the air, the corpse jerked upright.
The room shifted. The atmosphere grew heavy, oppressive, wrong. From the wound in his forehead, thick tendrils of blood writhed and wriggled, slithering like worms from the knife’s entry point. They pulsed and twisted, spreading across his face, down his neck, his chest. Then, without warning, his body erupted. Tentacles of blood burst outward, flailing and snapping through the air as if alive, coating the walls with splatters of crimson.
An unnatural aura dropped into the room like a suffocating fog.
The two nobles froze solid, their faces pale with horror.
Marcus, leaning casually against the doorfra, tilted his head toward them. "You heard . A Blood Demon. Now do yourselves a favor—get the hell out. Go scream it to the rest. There’s a demon in your fancy bar."
For a heartbeat, they hesitated, trembling like statues. Marcus’s gaze sharpened, his voice cutting like a whip. "Well? What the fuck are you still doing here?"
That was all it took. They bolted, tripping over themselves as they scrambled for the door. Their screams echoed down the corridor before they even reached the main hall, shouts of "Blood Demon! Blood Demon!" tearing through the air.
Marcus burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking as the sound filled the office. "Pathetic," he muttered, still chuckling. "Humans really are fun to watch when they’re scared shitless."
His eyes slid back to the creature behind the desk.
The man’s body had grown grotesquely tall, his back arching as muscles bulged and skin ripped apart to reveal crimson flesh beneath. Black markings spread like veins of corruption across his body. Two horns curled outward from the sides of his skull, jagged and sharp. His once-blue eyes were now pits of black, golden pupils gleaming like fire trapped in tar. His fingers elongated, claws sprouting black and sharp enough to tear through steel, his toes digging into the floor with predatory strength.
He rose fully, nearly seven feet tall, towering over the desk that now seed small in comparison. A grin, jagged and feral, split his face.
"You’ve made a mistake," the demon growled, his voice a warped blend of man and monster. "A grave mistake, hunting down."
Marcus only chuckled, his arms folding across his chest. His expression was utterly unfazed, eyes dancing with amusent. He gave the demon a lazy wave, like beckoning a child closer.
"Save that bullshit for soone else," Marcus said, his voice smooth, mocking. "You’re the one who made the mistake." His grin widened, teeth flashing as his tone dipped into sothing darker. "The mistake of not trying to kill when you robbed a week ago."
The demon froze, confusion flickering across his monstrous face. Robbed...? His golden eyes narrowed, studying Marcus as though trying to reconcile the audacity standing before him.
Marcus tilted his head, smirking wider. "What’s wrong? Not used to soone rembering your little gas?"
The demon snarled, shaking off the thought, his claws flexing as he crouched, muscles tensing to strike.
Marcus just rolled his shoulders, utterly relaxed, onyx eyes glowing faintly in the dim torchlight.
"Good," he muttered with a grin. "Now stop wasting ti and co at ."
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