The hunters' training ground was a cavernous space tucked beneath Blackstone's forgotten rail line, hidden from the ordinary people who went about their days blissfully unaware of the monsters lurking in the shadows of their town. Here, steel clanged against steel, fists cracked against padded targets, and sweat rolled into the dirt floor like the ground itself had grown used to the taste.
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't supposed to be. This was where hunters were made. Where strength was sharpened, and weakness exposed.
And right now, weakness was being humiliated.
Chase Riker had a younger trainee pinned hard against the sparring mat. His fists didn't stop even when the other hunter tried to yield. He laughed—a cruel, hollow sound—as he slammed his opponent down again and again, his voice dripping with mockery.
"Come on, is this all you've got? How are you supposed to survive Blackstone if you can't even survive me?"
The younger hunter coughed, rolling, his arms raised in surrender. But Chase wasn't done. He wanted to make a show out of it. He always did. The others didn't intervene. Some looked away. Others smirked, as if Chase's arrogance was a free form of entertainment.
And then a voice cut through it all. Smooth. Sarcastic. Unbothered.
"Wow. Someone stop me before I cry. This is… truly inspiring. Chase Riker, Blackstone's very own champion of bullying teenagers."
Heads turned immediately.
Leaning against the metal railing above, his hands shoved casually into his pockets, stood Damien Cross. The dim lights of the underground training hall caught his features—the sharp jawline, the lazy smirk, the dark hair that fell just enough into his eyes to make him look like he hadn't tried, but still looked untouchable.
Damien Cross.
The name was enough to still the room.
Chase froze mid-motion, his fist hovering above the boy's face. He turned, his lips curling into a sneer. "Stay out of this, Cross. This has nothing to do with you."
Damien's smirk deepened. He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, his tone cutting like a blade wrapped in velvet.
"Nothing to do with me? See, that's where you're wrong. Everything you do that wastes my time has everything to do with me. And watching you try to prove you're stronger than someone half your size is… let's just say it's giving me secondhand embarrassment."
Laughter rippled through the room, low and cautious. No one dared laugh too loud. Chase's jaw tightened, his face flushing red, but Damien hadn't even moved from his spot on the railing.
He finally pushed off, walking down the steel steps with a lazy gait, his boots echoing with authority. His eyes locked onto Chase, cool and sharp, as if he could see right through him.
"Here's the thing, Chase," Damien said, stepping closer. "You've been running your mouth for weeks. And I let it slide, because honestly? You're boring. But this—" he gestured to the boy still sprawled on the mat—"this is where it stops. You don't get to play king here. Not while I'm breathing."
Chase dropped the boy roughly and squared his shoulders. "And what? You're gonna stop me?"
Damien's smirk didn't falter. In fact, it sharpened.
"No, I'm going to humiliate you… and the best part? I won't even break a sweat."
Gasps flickered around the room. Chase lunged—fast, arrogant, every muscle taut with the belief that he could put Damien down like he did the others.
But Damien moved like liquid shadow. One step, a twist of his wrist, and Chase was flat on his back before anyone even saw what happened. The air whooshed from Chase's lungs, and Damien crouched beside him, still wearing that infuriatingly calm smirk.
"Lesson one, Chase: never assume you're the strongest in the room." His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, but it carried in the silence. "Lesson two? Don't waste my time again."
Damien let him go, standing to his full height, brushing invisible dust off his sleeves as though Chase had been nothing more than an inconvenience.
The room stayed silent, every eye on him. Not because he demanded it. But because Damien Cross was… magnetic. Impossible to ignore. He didn't have to roar to be heard. He didn't have to threaten to be feared.
Damien flicked his gaze around the training hall, his smirk softening into something almost bored. "Alright. Show's over. Someone help him up before he cries."
The trainees, of course, rushed to help Chase stand up. Some of them were still laughing, others trying to swallow their grins, but the sting of amusement lingered in the air like smoke after fire. When they finally got him upright, Chase jerked his arm free, his pride far more bruised than his body.
"Leave me the hell alone," he snapped, his jaw tight, his cheeks flushed red from humiliation. His eyes didn't dare flick back to Damien, not with everyone watching. Instead, he stormed off, shoes echoing hard against the wooden floor as the double doors rattled shut behind him.
The hall hadn't fully settled after Chase's dramatic exit when Damien slung his jacket over his shoulder, his smirk still tugging at the corners of his mouth. His eyes scanned the trainees — most pretending to focus on their drills again, though all of them had one ear tuned to him.
Typical. He didn't even have to try. His presence did all the heavy lifting.
Logan Collins crossed his arms beside him, one brow arched. "You know, one day you'll push Chase so far he won't come back."
"Good," Damien said smoothly, shrugging into his jacket. "This place could use less whining and more actual skill." He tilted his head toward where Chase had stormed out. "Besides, when you're weak, you don't get to act strong. That's the rule."
Logan chuckled. "Says the guy who thinks rules don't apply to him."
Damien flashed him a grin, cocky and unapologetic. "Correction: rules don't apply to me."
Before Logan could fire back, the heavy tread of boots echoed through the hall again. One of the senior hunters, Marcus — older, grizzled, his face set in a perpetual scowl — came forward, holding the folded morning paper in his hand. His voice cut through the low hum of the training room.
"Cross. Logan."
Both turned their heads, though Damien barely moved, only flicked his gaze lazily upward.
Marcus unfolded the paper and slapping it against his palm. "Nancy Hall." He held the headline toward them. Local Teen Missing — Last Seen Leaving Sunnyside Diner.
The noise in the hall dipped again, a ripple of unease spreading through the room.
Logan's grin faded. He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "Nancy? The senior from Blackstone High? Blonde hair, always hanging out at Sunnyside?"
"The same," Marcus confirmed grimly.
Damien finally straightened, his smirk slipping into something quieter, sharper. He plucked the paper from Marcus's hand without asking and skimmed the front page. His expression didn't betray much — but the silence that followed was enough.
"She was last seen three nights ago," Marcus continued. "Friends said she was walking home."
"It's that damn vampire," Damien said at last, tossing the paper onto the nearest bench. His tone was casual, but his eyes glinted with something darker. "The rogue one."
"You don't know that," Marcus countered.
Damien smirked again, but it didn't reach his eyes this time. "Of course I do. I've been tracking him for weeks. Too sloppy to be local. Too wild to stay hidden for long."
Logan's voice cut in, low and serious. "You're saying he's the one that took Nancy?"
Damien exhaled, leaning back against the wall, folding his arms. "I'm saying I warned everyone. A rogue this reckless doesn't just stalk the woods for long. He craves attention. He's messy. He doesn't care if the town notices. And now, someone's gone."
For a moment, the weight of his words pressed on the room. The younger hunters froze mid-punch, mid-step, straining to hear.
Damien, of course, noticed. He smiled, slow and arrogant. "Relax. You've got me."
The confidence was infuriating. Yet, somehow, it steadied the air.
Logan shook his head, but there was no humor in it. "You're so unbelievable."
"I know," Damien replied smoothly. "And lucky for Nancy—if she's still alive—unbelievable is exactly what we need."
Marcus's frown deepened. "This isn't a game, Cross. A girl is missing."
Damien's eyes flickered, sharp as a blade. "Trust me, Marcus, I don't play games." He pushed off the wall, his jacket falling perfectly into place as though gravity itself bent to his arrogance. "And when I catch that rogue…" His voice dipped into something colder, lethal. "I'll make sure he regrets thinking Blackstone was his hunting ground."
Logan exchanged a glance with Marcus, then sighed. "Guess that means we're going out tonight."
Damien's grin returned, wicked and effortless. "You catch on fast."
As he walked toward the exit, the hall parted around him, hunters shifting instinctively out of his way. The whispers started as soon as he passed — not all flattering, but all laced with fascination.