The hot sun filtered through the windows of Lincoln High's biology classroom. It casted long shadows across rows of desks.
The stale air hung heavy with the scent of formaldehyde.
At the back corner, slouched against a chair that had seen better decades, Daemon Sinners let sleep claim him completely.
His red hair fell across his face like spilled paint, partially obscuring the intricate tattoos that snaked up his neck, designs that seemed to writhe and shift in the dancing light.
Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes moved beneath closed lids, lost in dreams far removed from cellular mitosis and protein synthesis.
A soft snore escaped his lips.
"….and that's why the ribosome is considered the powerhouse of protein production," Mr. Wu droned, his nasal voice cutting through the classroom's lethargy like a dull knife.
The elderly teacher's lab coat bore stains from decades of experiments, his thinning hair combed over a scalp that gleamed under fluorescent lights.
Another snore, this one louder.
The boys nearest to Daemon exchanged knowing grins, some stifling chuckles behind cupped hands.
But among the girls, a different energy stirred. Sarah Chen found herself stealing glances at the sleeping figure, noting how peaceful he looked despite the hard lines of his face. Even asleep, there was something magnetic about him, dangerous and beautiful in equal measure.
"Mr. Sinners!"
The name cracked through the air like a whip. Several students jumped, but Daemon remained motionless, his breathing steady and deep.
Mr. Wu's face flushed red. In thirty-seven years of teaching, he'd dealt with every variety of disruptive student, but Daemon Sinners was in a category all his own.
The boy attended sporadically, never participated, yet somehow maintained passing grades that suggested either cheating or an intelligence he refused to apply.
"DAEMON SINNERS!"
This time, a few girls giggled at the teacher's obvious frustration.
One whispered to her friend, "He looks like an angel when he sleeps."
"An angel with those tats? More like a devil."
"A cute devil then."
Daemon's eyes cracked open, revealing irises the color of storm clouds. He didn't lift his head, didn't straighten in his chair. Just stared at Mr. Wu with lazy indifference.
"Stand up when I'm addressing you, young man."
"No."
The word dropped into silence like a stone into still water. Mr. Wu's eye twitched. Students turned fully around to watch, their biology textbook forgotten. This was better than any reality show.
"Excuse me?"
"I said no." Daemon's voice carried the weight of gravel and smoke, mature beyond his seventeen years.
"You interrupted my sleep. Common courtesy suggests you should apologize first."
A few students snickered.
Mr. Wu's hand trembled as he reached for a pencil on his desk, a yellow number two, worn from use. With surprising force for a man his age, he hurled it across the room.
The pencil spun end over end, aimed directly at Daemon's forehead.
Without shifting from his slouched position, without even appearing to focus, Daemon's hand moved. His fingers closed around the pencil mere inches from his face, the motion fluid as water.
The classroom fell dead silent.
"Too slow," Daemon said.
His throw was casual, almost lazy, but the pencil cut through the air with mechanical precision. It whistled past Mr. Wu's head, close enough that the old man felt the breeze, and clipped his ear with surgical accuracy. A thin line of red appeared on the lobe.
Mr. Wu stumbled backward, his hand flying to his ear. "You... you attacked a teacher! I'm calling the principal! The police!"
The bell chose that moment to ring, its harsh electronic buzz drowning out whatever else Mr. Wu might have said.
Students began gathering their books, but all eyes remained fixed on Daemon as he finally stood. At full height, he towered over most of his classmates, his lean frame deceptive in its apparent casualness.
Instead of heading for the door like everyone else, Daemon turned toward the window.
"Mr. Sinners, where do you think you're…"
Daemon didn't wait for the question to finish. In one fluid motion, he vaulted through the open window, disappearing from view. The classroom erupted in chaos….chairs scraping, students rushing to the window, voices raised in excitement and disbelief.
"Oh my God, is he dead?"
"That's a full story drop!"
"Someone call 911!"
But when they peered down at the courtyard below, Daemon was already walking away, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.
He moved with the easy pose of someone for whom a one-story fall was nothing more than an inconvenience.
"SCHOOL ISN'T OVER, MR. SINNERS!" Mr. Wu's voice cracked as he shouted through the window. "YOU HAVE TWO MORE PERIODS!"
Daemon didn't even turn around.
******
The streets of San Francisco stretched before him like arteries through a concrete heart.
Daemon walked without destination, letting his feet carry him through neighborhoods that shifted from respectable to questionable with each passing block.
His stomach growled, reminding him that breakfast had been skipped and lunch was now a distant memory.
Food cost money, and money was something he'd see tonight, if everything went according to plan.
A screech of tires brought his head up. Across the street, an elderly woman had stepped into the crosswalk just as a delivery truck came barreling around the corner.
The driver was looking at his phone, completely oblivious to the pedestrian in his path.
Time seemed to slow.
The woman looked up, her eyes wide with terror as she realized her mistake. The truck's horn blared, but it was too late for the driver to stop.
Too late for the woman to move.
Daemon didn't think. His body moved on pure instinct, muscles coiled and released like a spring. He covered the distance between sidewalks in heartbeats, his arms wrapping around the woman's frail frame as he lifted her clear of the truck's path.
Phew!
They landed hard on the opposite sidewalk, Daemon taking the brunt of the impact against his shoulder. The truck thundered past, its driver finally looking up from his device and slamming the brakes too late to matter.
"Oh my dear Lord," the woman gasped, her weathered hands clutching at Daemon's jacket. "You saved my life. You saved my life!"
She was small and thin, with silver hair pulled back in a neat bun and clothes that spoke of modest means but careful maintenance.
Her eyes, magnified behind thick glasses, were bright with tears and gratitude.
"Are you hurt?" Daemon asked, helping her to her feet with surprising gentleness.
"No, no, I'm fine. Thanks to you." She patted his arm with trembling fingers. "What's your name, young man?"
"Daemon."
"Well, Daemon, you're an angel. A guardian angel." She reached into her purse, pulling out a paper bag. "I was just coming back from the market. Please, take this. It's not much, but..."
The bag contained a sandwich. Turkey and cheese on what looked like homemade bread, along with an apple and a small container of cookies.
The simple kindness of it hit Daemon somewhere deep in his chest, a place he'd thought had gone numb years ago.
"Thank you," he said, and meant it.
He found a bench in a nearby park and ate slowly, savoring each bite.
The sandwich was simple but good, made with care rather than speed. As he chewed, he realized this was his first meal of the day. A pattern that had become far too familiar. Between school, training, and the fights, food often became an afterthought until his body demanded attention.
The apple was crisp and sweet. The cookies tasted like his grandmother's, from the brief time he'd lived with her before the state had other ideas about his placement.
He pushed that memory away and focused on the present, the food, the warmth of the sun, the distant sounds of the city moving around him.
His phone buzzed. A text from Kensuke: "Where the hell are you? Fight's in two hours."
Daemon pocketed the device and headed for the gym.
******
The warehouse that housed Murphy's Fight Club sat in the industrial district like a rusted monument to violence and ambition.
Outside, it looked abandoned. Broken windows covered with plywood, graffiti tags layering decades of urban art. But inside, it was a cathedral of combat, complete with a regulation UFC octagon and enough lighting to make every drop of blood visible to the cameras.
"You're late," Kensuke growled as Daemon pushed through the back entrance.