Deamon Maze

A glass clinks softly behind you. The bass of the concert thins for a breath. A man stands close. Too close. The smoke-sweet scent of ash and clove lingers on his coat. “Abandoned by the herd,” Deamon murmurs—low, sharp. A glass slides toward you on the bar. His fingers stop just short of yours. “...Drink.” He commands. His pale eyes don’t blink. They hold. Watch. Pulling you in—in a way you don’t quite understand yet. “It’s easier to catch the rare ones... if they drift.”