Chapter 2 Stranger Things

Her name was Lia.

That's all she gave him.

No last name. No story. Just that. One syllable, barely whispered over the rim of her glass like it was too heavy to say aloud.

Damien didn't push. He never did. Not unless he had to.

They sat at the bar in silence, the noise of the club fading into background static. He hadn't meant to stay. Usually he came, drank, observed, and left before midnight. But something about the way she held herself-like a glass one crack away from shattering-made it impossible to walk away.

Lia didn't ask who he was. She didn't flinch at the tattoos or the scar on his jaw or the heavy presence he carried like a second skin. That alone made her different.

Most people were afraid of him.

She looked like she'd been afraid for so long, there was nothing left.

Damien watched her from the corner of his eye. She didn't talk much-just sipped her drink, tapping her fingers against the glass, eyes darting toward the exit every few minutes. Like she was debating running again.

He recognized the look. He wore it himself for years.

She was planning an escape, even if she didn't know from what.

"How old are you?" he asked, his voice low.

She hesitated. "Old enough."

He didn't smile, but there was a flicker of something close in his eyes. "That's not an answer."

She shrugged. "Neither was your question."

Clever. Wary. Guarded.

She was like a puzzle missing too many pieces, but something about the way she held herself-quiet but not weak, distant but not numb-told him she was still fighting. Barely. But still.

The bartender came by again. Damien waved him off before Lia could order another.

She blinked at him. "That was mine."

"You've had enough."

Her spine straightened. "You don't know me."

"I don't need to."

Silence stretched between them like a taut wire.

"You think you're saving me or something?" she muttered, voice bitter. "Because I promise, I'm past that point."

Damien turned toward her fully for the first time, his eyes sharp and quiet. "I don't save people."

"Then what are you doing?"

He didn't answer.

Because he didn't know. He just knew that watching her fall deeper into something dark triggered something in him. Something old. Something buried. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was familiarity. Maybe he just saw himself in her eyes and didn't like the reflection.

He stood suddenly, tossing a few bills on the bar.

"Come with me."

Lia stared at him. "Why?"

He didn't blink. "Because you shouldn't be here. And because I'm the only thing in this room more dangerous than the rest of them."

She looked at the exit, then back at him. Her shoulders trembled, just a little. Her fingers clutched the bar like it was the only solid thing left in her world.

"Where would we go?"

"Anywhere but here."

It wasn't romantic. It wasn't safe. It wasn't even smart.

But something about the way he said it-calm, certain, like he meant it-made her legs move before her brain could argue.

And so she followed the Devil out of the club, not knowing if she was escaping danger or walking straight into its arms.