The old man stood barely five-foot-six, his face a roadmap of scars and broken capillaries. His suit had probably been expensive once, but that was several decades and many stains ago.
"I've been fielding calls from concerned parties about your whereabouts."
"Had to save an old lady from getting flattened by a truck," Daemon said, stripping off his jacket to reveal the intricate tattoo work that covered his arms and torso.
"Then an old man yelled at me about pencils. Then another old man yelled at me about windows. Now you're yelling at me about punctuality. What's with angry old men today?"
Kensuke's scowl deepened. "You think this is funny? You think any of this is a game?"
He gestured toward the octagon, where crews were making final adjustments to cameras and lighting.
"That kid in there has been training for three months specifically to take your head off. Selvin Hands isn't some weekend warrior looking for beer money."
Daemon pulled on his fight shorts, black with red trim that matched the color of his hair.
"Selvin Hands? What kind of name is that?"
"The kind that comes attached to a record of fifteen wins and two losses, both by decision. He's lean, he's fast, and he's hungry. More importantly, he's not impressed by your little reputation."
"Good," Daemon said, reaching for his mask.
It was his signature piece. A demon's face crafted from lightweight carbon fiber, complete with curling ram's horns and a mouth twisted in permanent snarl.
"Boredom kills the sport anyways."
The crowd's energy hit them like a wall of sound as they made their way to the octagon.
The warehouse was packed beyond capacity, bodies pressed together in the semi-darkness beyond the fight lights. Money changed hands as bookies shouted odds, beer flowed freely, and the air thrummed with violent anticipation.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer's voice boomed over the sound system. "Fighting out of the red corner, with a record of twenty-three wins and zero losses, the Fallen Angel.... DAEMON SINNERS!"
The crowd erupted. Signs waved in the air, voices screamed approval and profanity in equal measure.
Daemon was their dark prince, their undefeated champion.
He vaulted over the octagon's fence in one smooth motion, landing in a crouch before rising to his full height.
The demon mask transformed him from troubled teenager to something primal and dangerous. The crowd's energy fed him like a drug.
Across the octagon, Selvin Hands bounced on the balls of his feet. He was exactly as Kensuke had described.
Lean muscle stretched over a frame built for speed, his dark hair pulled back in braids adorned with small silver rings that caught the light when he moved.
His eyes never left Daemon's masked face.
"You sure that mask isn't to hide the fact that you're still sucking on mama's tit?" Selvin called out, his voice carrying over the crowd noise.
The insult hit its mark, not because it hurt, but because it was so far from the truth it was almost funny.
Daemon tilted his head, studying his opponent with the casual interest of a scientist observing a lab rat.
"No mama," he said, his voice carrying despite the noise. "No papa either. Just me and the devil in this mask."
Selvin's grin faltered slightly, but he pressed on. "Orphan boy trying to play tough? I'm going to send you back to whatever foster home is stupid enough to claim you."
"You're welcome to try."
The referee called them to the center. As Selvin approached, Daemon could see the hunger in his eyes, not just for victory, but for the kind of recognition that came with being the man who ended the Sleeping Devil's streak.
It was a look Daemon had seen many times before.
"Keep it clean, gentlemen," the referee said, though everyone in the building knew that "clean" was a relative term. "Touch gloves if you want to."
Selvin extended his fist. Daemon looked at it for a long moment, then stepped back without making contact.
Selvin growled.
"Round one!" the referee shouted. "Fight!"
Selvin came forward immediately, throwing a sharp jab that would have caught most fighters off guard. But Daemon simply wasn't there when the punch arrived, having flowed to the side like smoke.
Another jab, another miss. A hook, a cross, an uppercut, all finding nothing but air as Daemon moved like liquid around the octagon.
"Stand still and fight!" Selvin snarled, sweat already beading on his forehead despite the round being barely thirty seconds in.
Daemon's response was a lazy smile visible even through the mask's mouth opening. "How about you connect a punch first?"
The taunt hit home. Selvin's technique, clean and precise at the start, began to deteriorate as frustration mounted.
His punches came faster but sloppier, his footwork losing its careful rhythm. The crowd sensed the shift and their noise intensified.
"Tell you what," Daemon said, still moving, still untouchable. "Land one clean shot on me, and I'll give you a kiss you'll never forget."
Selvin's face went crimson. With a roar of rage, he charged forward, abandoning all pretense of technique in favor of raw aggression.
Daemon stopped moving.
The first punch landed on Selvin's solar plexus with surgical precision, driving the air from his lungs and sending shockwaves through his nervous system.
Before he could even register the hit, Daemon's knee found his ribs with an audible crack. An elbow to the temple scrambled his balance.
A kick to the thigh landed with the sound of a baseball bat hitting meat.
Each strike was perfectly placed, each impact designed not just to damage but to disrupt.
Selvin's own body began to betray him. His left arm wouldn't respond properly, his right leg felt like it belonged to someone else, and his vision kept sliding in and out of focus.
"What's wrong?" Daemon asked as he landed another precise combination. "You look like you want to sleep."
From the corner, Selvin's coach screamed instructions that might as well have been in a foreign language.
The fighter's body was no longer obeying his commands, muscle memory failing as Daemon dismantled his opponent's ability to coordinate movement.
"Fight or die!" the coach finally shouted. "If you don't fight, you're fucking dead to me!"
Something primal flickered in Selvin's eyes. With the last of his coordination, he lunged forward and managed to grab Daemon in a clinch, using his weight and desperation to drive them both against the octagon's metal fence.
The crowd roared its approval at the first real contact of the fight.
Daemon's mask pressed against the cold metal, Selvin's weight pinning him in place.
Selvin grinned through his pain and confusion, tasting what he thought might be victory.
He was wrong.