He wore rich but garish robes, embroidered with the insignia of a noble house.
His hair was slicked back, and an ostentatious ring shone on his gloved finger as he adjusted his collar with theatrical flair.
He had the look of someone who thought himself important—chin slightly raised, sneer permanently carved into his lips—the kind of face people instinctively wanted to punch.
Thomas's expression darkened. "Damon," he muttered. "Should've known you'd crawl out eventually."
Damon smirked wider. "And here I thought that poison finished you off years ago. Yet look at you… still hobbling around, playing escort dog to some rich brat. Truly tragic."
Then his eyes shifted to Apollo.
"And you, stranger… unlucky, I suppose. But don't worry—we'll keep your corpse intact."
A low chuckle rippled through the killers encircling them.
Still, Apollo's face didn't change. He gave the group a once-over, then looked back to Damon—as if measuring the weight of their lives.
One second passed.
