Damien had fallen asleep midway through the injection process.
By the time the serum had finished its course, he was already unconscious.
Calloway had him moved to his bed, restoring the room to its usual state before quietly departing.
The anesthetics administered earlier were meant to dull the pain of the spinal injection, but the serum itself, the modified spinal fluid, was essential.
Not because Damien couldn't survive without it, but because without it, he'd fare terribly.
His muscles would ache, his reflexes would dull, and the world would feel like it was moving a step faster than he could follow.
In the long run, the injection would enhance his stamina, boost his mental agility, and raise his hyperactivity.
But the side effect was always the same: sleep.
A deep, unavoidable sleep.
This time, it would last approximately eight hours.
Calloway had other matters to attend to during that time, and Vee, the ever-efficient AI was left in charge of monitoring Damien's vitals.
---
Somewhere else…
In the heart of a crowded street, a boy no older than nine stood alone amidst a sea of people.
The air was thick with movement, shoppers, lovers, parents, and children weaving through the open market, but he was still uncertain.
His dark hair fell slightly over his face, not enough to mask his features, but just enough to hide the confusion in his eyes.
He didn't know how he'd gotten here, nor could he recall who brought him.
Every stranger that passed added weight to the anxiety pressing on his chest.
"Mum?" he muttered, half in thought, half in hope.
Then, he spotted a familiar silhouette, a woman walking briskly away in the distance.
His heart surged.
Without thinking, he rushed forward and grasped her hand.
Relief washed over him… until she turned.
Not her.
Startled, he stepped back, murmuring an apology.
But she only stared, eyes filled with something between pity and disgust.
He turned, already catching sight of another woman.
Her back, her hair, her frame, it looked like his mother again.
He rushed to her too, this time more cautious, more desperate.
And again, the face was wrong.
Then he noticed the truth: they all looked like her.
Dozens of faces, each a reflection of his mother, stared back at him.
The resemblance, at first comforting, now turned horrific.
Their expressions were twisted and cold, contemptuous, hollow.
He took a step back, trembling.
"Mum? Mum…" he called again, voice cracking as it rose in panic.
"Mum!"
The crowd blurred.
Their eyes bore down on him.
The world closed in.
"MUM!"
---
Damien jolted upright, drenched in sweat.
His room was dim, cast in shades of early dusk.
He was still in bed, the memory of the dream fading fast but leaving a bitter aftertaste.
"What time is it, Vee?" he asked, his voice still laced with sleep.
"Exactly 6:15 PM, sir," the AI responded smoothly.
Eight hours, just as predicted.
He'd fallen asleep around 10 a.m.
Rubbing his temples, Damien swung his legs off the bed and headed for the shower.
His skin was clammy, and the sweat clung unpleasantly to his body.
A long, hot bath was the only solution.
Calloway was nowhere to be seen, and Damien didn't bother summoning him.
This was routine now, sleeping by day, rising by dusk.
His life had inverted, and the night had become his new reality.
The sound of running water soon filled the room, and forty-five minutes later, Damien emerged in a dark grey robe, his skin flushed from the steam.
He walked up to the wardrobe.
As he approached, a screen lit up, revealing a list of curated outfits.
"Vee, any recommendations?" he asked.
"Drizzle expected this evening, sir. I recommend the Loro Piana Storm-System™ suit in anthracite grey, form-fitting, weather-resistant, and elegant."
A preview of the suit appeared on-screen; it's cut, sleek, and refined.
Damien smiled at the choice.
The wardrobe opened, mechanisms sliding into place until the exact outfit was presented like a showroom display.
He applied a thin layer of La Mer's diamond-dust exfoliant, followed by a Pima-cotton undershirt, hand-embroidered and tailored to his build.
Dressing took a little longer without Calloway's help, but eventually, he got the tie and silk shirt aligned just right.
He turned toward a section of wall beside the wardrobe.
As if sensing his presence, it receded, revealing a private alcove.
A full-length mirror lit up, and a sleek drawer extended beneath it, revealing rows of meticulously arranged accessories.
Too many options.
It was overwhelming.
Vee, ever intuitive, stepped in.
"Sir, the Patek Philippe Grand Complications matches your current aesthetic. I also suggest the Wallace Chan platinum-set cufflinks with rare green tsavorites. For the belt, go with Schedoni hand-cut Italian calfskin, finished in 18k white gold."
Each item Vee mentioned subtly rose from the drawer, highlighted against the rest.
"You sound like a damn sales rep," Damien said with a smirk.
Still, he took every suggestion.
Damien felt the cold sheen of metal and fabric settle against his skin.
He exhaled, low and tired.
"Trying to dress simple is a struggle," he muttered.
With the suit now perfectly tailored to his frame, all that remained were his shoes and a hint of cologne.
He reached for a random bottle, a bold, masculine scent, and dabbed it on lightly.
His shoes had already been placed in front of the wardrobe by Vee: a sleek pair of Berluti Ventidue Oxfords, hand-painted in patent leather and sculpted precisely to his foot mold.
He stood before the mirror one last time and found the reflection matched what he had imagined.
His hair remained tousled and unruly, but that, too, played into the image he wanted to project.
With a satisfied nod, Damien turned and exited the room.
The space automatically reset behind him.
His mansion, though perched atop a cliff, seemed to stretch endlessly.
Whether it was genuinely vast or just a triumph of clever design, he couldn't say.
He only occupied a small portion of it, with the rest left undeveloped, he had no real use for more rooms, and he preferred the unbroken view of the ocean.
From his bedroom, he could see the city stretching out in the distance, a winding path of lights leading to its heart.
But if he wanted the sea, the porch encircled the mansion, or he could just ascend to the topmost floor and bask in the wind.
The house itself was a towering three-story structure with the internal space of a stadium.
Truthfully, Damien could barely account for half the rooms it housed.
He knew the kitchen, Calloway's quarters, and the outdoor lounge.
Anything beyond that, he left to Vee's navigation.
He liked to think the mansion had everything, and by everything, he meant it literally.
Yet it felt like nothing without someone to share it with.
That's where Riley had once come in, his ex-fiance, strict and structured but useful in her way.
Descending the spiraling staircase with ease, Damien passed by a living room he never used and headed for the main door.
There, as expected, Calloway stood with his usual stoic expression, holding a few items in hand.
"Good evening, Master Damien," Calloway greeted, offering him a slight nod.
"I see you're in a good mood."
"Not particularly," Damien replied dryly.
Without comment, Calloway handed him a pair of Frette cashmere-lined gloves and an engraved S.T. Dupont lighter.
He hesitated for a moment before producing a brown cigar, the traditional kind.
"You'll like it," he said simply.
Damien slid on the gloves, slipped the lighter and cigar into their designated spots, and raised a brow.
He doubted it was tobacco, Calloway wouldn't allow it.
Whatever was in it, it was probably just for the look.
As he stepped toward the door, Calloway's voice stopped him.
"Master Damien... forgetting something?"
Damien paused, a sheepish smile creeping up his lips. Calloway approached, opening the door for him with one hand, while the other extended a slim, flat device, Damien's phone.
"You're insufferable," Calloway said, tone dry.
Damien took the phone with a smirk, but before he could say anything more, he paused again.
"That car I used last time..?"
"You scratched it," Calloway interrupted.
"It's undergoing repairs and routine maintenance."
"Tch. I liked that one," Damien said, almost pouting.
"I figured you would," Calloway replied.
"So I prepared a suitable replacement: a matte-black Rolls-Royce Phantom. The engine has been tuned for maximum responsiveness, heated seats configured to your lumbar profile, and the steering wheel warmed to your preferred grip." Calloway said directing his eyes to the frontage.
Damien opened his mouth to complain, then closed it again.
Truthfully, the car sounded perfect and it matched the image he was going for tonight.
Maybe that's what Calloway spent the day doing, he wondered briefly.
Then dismissed the thought.
Calloway had his agency.
He was more a partner than a servant.
Without another word, Damien stepped into the vehicle, sinking into its tailored luxury.
He cast one final glance at Calloway and gave him a small, knowing smile.
Sliding the unlit cigar between his lips, he ignited the engine.
It rumbled to life with a deep growl.
Tonight, his aesthetic was set to stylish, dangerous, and commanding.
A gang boss in everything but name.
Now, it was time to find which unfortunate club he'd be raiding.
Preferably one no one had ever heard of.