The words hung in the cramped space like a fart in an elevator.
Daemon's hands stilled on the tape, his head turning slowly to fix his manager with a stare that could have melted reinforced steel.
"Fourteen dollars," he repeated, each syllable measured and precise. "For putting a man in the hospital."
Kensuke's defensive posture was immediate and well-rehearsed.
"Now listen here, you ungrateful little…" He caught himself, took a breath that rattled in his chest, then launched into a tirade that had been building for months like pressure in a boiler.
"You think this is easy? You think any of this just happens by magic? I set up these fights, I negotiate the purses, I deal with the promoters and the athletic commission people who want their piece of everything. I smooth things over with the venue owners, the security companies, the medical staff."
Daemon resumed unwrapping his hands with deliberate slowness.
"Without me, you'd be fighting in parking lots for beer money and the chance to impress some drunk college girls. I gave you access to real money, real exposure, real opportunities that ninety-nine percent of fighters never see in their entire careers."
Kensuke's voice was rising, his face turning the color of a ripe tomato. "The UFC scouts were here tonight, kid. Actual UFC scouts! You know what that means for your future?"
"It means you're still giving me fourteen dollars for nearly killing a man."
Kensuke's face went from red to purple. "The overhead on these events is massive! The insurance alone costs more than most people make in a month. And don't even get me started on what it costs to keep the local authorities looking the other way while we run unsanctioned fights in abandoned warehouses."
Daemon stood up, the movement cutting through Kensuke's rant like a blade through silk.
He pocketed the envelope without counting the bills inside, pulled on his leather jacket with the careful deliberation of someone getting dressed for a funeral, and headed for the door.
"Where are you going? We need to talk about your next fight! There's a heavyweight from Oakland who's been asking about you specifically, and I think we could negotiate a real payday if….."
The door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the frame, leaving Kensuke alone with his words echoing off the walls
******
The night air hit Daemon like cold water. San Francisco's streets stretched before him in ribbons of light and shadow, the city's nocturnal energy just beginning to stir.
Neon signs reflected off rain-slicked pavement in smears of color, and the distant sound of traffic mixed with music bleeding from the bars and clubs.
He walked without conscious destination, letting his feet choose the path while his mind processed the evening's events.
Fourteen dollars. Three months of training, the risk of brain damage, the wear and tear on a body that was already carrying more scars than most people accumulated in a lifetime.
It was an insult wrapped in an explanation, and Kensuke's justifications only made it worse.
His stomach growled with the persistence of an ignored alarm clock, reminding him that the sandwich from the grateful old lady was gone.
He turned down Mission Street, heading for the twenty-four-hour market where Frederick kept reasonable prices and didn't ask uncomfortable questions about why a teenager was doing his grocery shopping at midnight.
The hair at the back of his neck suddenly rose. Someone was watching him. Someone was following him from the fight.
Daemon didn't alter his pace or turn around. Instead, he catalogued possibilities like a mental inventory.
The Irish brothers he'd hospitalized last week for harassing some middle school kid seemed like prime candidates.
They had the intelligence of a goldfish, but enough family connections and wounded pride to make them dangerous.
Or it could be one of the fan girls from tonight, though that seemed less likely given the hour and the emptiness of the streets.
He paused at a crosswalk, using the moment to scan reflections in storefront windows.
Nothing obvious jumped out at him, but the feeling persisted like an itch he couldn't scratch. More than that, it was growing stronger, developing an edge that felt less like curiosity and more like hunger.
The market's neon sign buzzed and flickered as he pushed through the glass door, triggering a electronic chime that had probably been cheerful once.
Frederick looked up from behind bulletproof glass that spoke volumes about the neighborhood. His dark face creasing in a smile that managed to be both genuine and tired.
"Daemon, my man. How'd the fight go tonight?"
"Won." Daemon moved through the narrow aisles with practiced efficiency, grabbing basics,bread, peanut butter, a gallon of milk that cost more than his fight purse.
The absurdity wasn't lost on him. "You catch any of it?"
"Nah, had to work. Double shift tonight. But I heard through the grapevine that Selvin Hands was talking mad trash beforehand, saying he was gonna put you in your place."
Frederick's laugh was rich and genuine. "Guess that didn't work out too well for him."
"Not so much." Daemon added a bag of apples to his selection, thinking of the old woman's kindness earlier in the day.
Simple gestures seemed to matter more in a world that was largely indifferent to suffering. "Kensuke's still robbing me blind."
Frederick shook his head with the weary resignation of someone who'd seen the same story play out countless times.
"That old vulture's been picking fighters clean since before you were born, son. You need to find yourself better representation. Someone who sees your potential instead of just seeing dollar signs with legs."
"Easier said than done."
"Maybe so. But you got something special, Daemon. Don't let nobody convince you otherwise." Frederick bagged the groceries with the efficiency of years of practice. "That'll be twelve-fifty."
Daemon handed over most of his fight earnings, pocketed the change that amounted to less than two dollars, and headed back into the night.
The weight of the bag in his arms was somehow comforting, tangible proof that his efforts had produced something real, even if it was just enough food to last him a few days.
The sensation of being watched intensified as he turned down a side street lined with businesses that had closed hours ago.
This wasn't the casual observation of curious bystanders or potential threats sizing up their odds.
This was focused, predatory, and getting closer with each step he took.
He turned into an alley between two buildings that had been abandoned so long they'd become part of the urban landscape. Windows were boarded up like closed eyes.
Halfway through the narrow space, he stopped walking and set his groceries down carefully on the cracked asphalt.
"Alright," he said to the empty air, his voice echoing off brick walls. "I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I've already dealt with enough idiots for one night. Whatever you want, let's get it over with so I can go home and eat my dinner in peace."
Silence stretched between the walls like a held breath, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the scurry of something small moving through the debris.
"Come on," Daemon continued, his voice taking on a note of mocking impatience. "Don't tell me you're going to hide like alley cats now. I can feel you watching me. It's making my skin crawl."
The shadows moved.
Four figures emerged from doorways and fire escapes with coordinated movements.
They wore identical black clothing, overcoats that hung to their knees like funeral shrouds. Masks covered everything but their eyes, and emblazoned on each chest, a red symbol that looked like a spider with too many legs writhing in some kind of weird pattern.
What made Daemon's skin crawl wasn't their appearance, though that was unsettling enough.
It was the sound they made, a low growling that seemed to come from deep in their chests, like wild animals.
"What are you supposed to be, dogs?" Daemon asked, genuinely puzzled by the sound and the absurdity of it all.
The growling intensified, becoming more aggressive, more focused.
Then one of them moved.
It wasn't human movement.
It was faster than anything Daemon had ever seen, even in the ring against opponents hopped up on every performance enhancer known to science.
It was a blur of black that covered the distance between them in what felt like a single heartbeat, moving with the fluid impossibility of liquid mercury.
He had just enough time to register the motion, to tense his muscles in preparation for a dodge that never came, before claws that shouldn't have existed on human hands punched through his chest with the wet sound of meat being torn.
The pain was immediate and absolute, a white-hot explosion that radiated from his chest to every nerve ending in his body.
Fire spread through his torso as fingers that felt wrong, too long, too sharp, too cold wrapped around something vital inside him.
He looked down in shock and saw a hand protruding from his chest, dark liquid pumping around the invasion.
The thing withdrew its claws with a wet, sucking sound that Daemon felt more than heard.
In its grip, still beating with stubborn determination, was his heart.
His actual heart, torn from the cavity where it belonged, still trying to do its job even as it was held up like some kind of macabre trophy.
Daemon's legs gave out beneath him. He hit the alley floor hard, his vision already starting to gray at the edges like an old photograph fading.
Blood filled his mouth with the taste of copper pennies and profound regret. The world was getting smaller, sounds becoming distant and muffled.
His killers stood over him, their growling subsiding to something that might have been satisfaction.
Daemon's last coherent thought was that at least he wouldn't have to sit through Mr. Wu's biology class tomorrow.