"So," the florist, Martha, asked, pen hovering over her notepad, "this special lady... you said she's introverted?"
Damien nodded, glancing away from a bright bucket of tulips. "Yes. Nothing too... loud. She values sincerity, I think. Thoughtfulness." He searched for the right words. "Quiet elegance, perhaps?"
"Introverted and thoughtful," Martha mused aloud. "Violets could work – they mean modesty, faithfulness. Or Forget-Me-Nots? Very romantic, for remembrance." She tapped her chin. "Or maybe simpler is better? A single, perfect bloom? A deep red rose is classic, but maybe too bold?"
"Perhaps," Damien agreed.
"What about a pale lavender rose?" Martha suggested. "Or a white gardenia? Still elegant, lovely fragrance, but softer. More reserved."
Damien thought of Belinda's wry, honest messages. "The lavender rose," he decided. "Just one. Keep the wrapping simple but elegant."
"An excellent choice!" Martha beamed, turning to select the perfect stem. As she wrapped it, Damien noticed the faint blush creeping up her cheeks. He offered a polite smile when she handed it over.
"Thank you, Martha. It's perfect."
"I hope... I hope she loves it," Martha stammered slightly, her cheeks definitely pink now.
"I'm sure she will," Damien replied smoothly, stepping out of the fragrant shop and back onto the noisy street. He carefully tucked the single rose into his inner coat pocket just as his phone vibrated with a specific, urgent buzz. HQ.
He stepped into the relative quiet of an alleyway entrance and answered. "Yes?"
"Damien? We have a problem. Needs handling. Quickly." Cyrus's voice was clipped, all business.
Damien sighed inwardly. "Cyrus. What an unpleasant surprise. Unfortunately, I'm off today. Can't HQ find someone else?" He tried to keep his tone light, but the attempt felt thin.
"Damien!?" Cyrus's voice sharpened. "Listen to me. The Arcadian Accord has been broken."
Damien froze mid-step, nearly bumping into a passerby who cursed under their breath. "Sorry," he muttered, turning fully into the alley. The faint smell of refuse barely registered. "Broken? How?" he demanded, his voice low. "Speak to me, Cyrus."
"Diana is dead. Assassinated," Cyrus reported starkly. "Lazarus was ambushed near the docks – badly wounded. The monthly blood shipment from overseas? Intercepted. Gone. The hospital network donations? Compromised. All of it."
A cold dread settled over Damien. "This isn't random."
"No," Cyrus agreed grimly. "It's war."
Damien let out a soft, sharp curse.
"HQ specifically requested you," Cyrus added.
"And the humans?" Damien asked, a knot tightening in his gut. "What's their part in this?"
"They've turned," Cyrus said flatly. "Key factions have sided with the werewolves. They aim to eradicate us. We just got intel – coordinated attack starting now. The old industrial building, south side."
Damien's breath hitched. "Sarah!"
"Precisely," Cyrus confirmed. "Her operation is the target. They want to cripple us financially as well as starve us. Get down there, Damien. Secure the asset. Neutralize the threat. Call me when it's done."
The line clicked dead.
War. Sarah in danger. Duty overriding everything. He should be moving, a blur of impossible speed.
But then, his phone chimed again. A different ringtone. Melodic, softer. Her ringtone.
Belinda… He let out a heavy sigh, the conflict tearing at him. Her birthday. The meeting he'd promised himself – promised her – he would finally make.
He hesitated, then answered, forcing lightness into his tone. "Hey, hi."
"Hi!" Belinda's voice sounded warm, hopeful. "So... verdict? Are you actually coming to my birthday this time, or are you prepping another spectacular excuse?" The teasing tone couldn't quite hide the underlying question, the faint tremor of past disappointments.
Damien bit his lip. How could he explain? This human girl he'd only known online for over a year... breaking rules for scraps of her honest, carefree conversation that felt like sunlight. Every previous plan shattered by his reality. Today was meant to be different.
Damien bit his lip. What could he say? "Belinda," he started, his voice already strained. "Look… unfortunately, I can't make it today." He hated the words. "Something… something unavoidable came up. Really unavoidable."
Silence. Then, her voice, much quieter. "Oh." A pause. "Okay."
"Belinda, I'm really sorry," he said, meaning it desperately. "I wanted to be there. I really did."
"It's okay," she replied, her voice too quick, too understanding. It stung more than yelling would have. "No, really, Damien. It's fine. Big work thing?"
"Something like that," he said vaguely. "Look, I have to go. Right now. But I'll make it up to you. Soon." The promise felt empty even as he said it.
"Sure," she said, sounding unconvinced. "Okay. Well… have a good day, I guess."
"You too. Happy Birthday." The words felt wrong, painful.
He ended the call quickly, unable to listen anymore. He stood for a moment, phone in hand, the weight of the call pressing down. War had started, Sarah was in danger, and he'd just crushed Belinda's hopes. Again.
He sighed, a rough sound. Then, the assassin surfaced. Regret was a luxury. His eyes hardened.
He pushed off from the wall.
The world outside the alley blurred instantly. People on the sidewalk became frozen statues. Cars were unmoving blocks of colour. The city noise dropped to a low hum. He moved like a phantom, a streak of motion cutting through the air, vaulting between rooftops, landing silently, launching again. A flicker in someone's peripheral vision, a sudden gust of wind – that was all. He crossed block after block in seconds, the industrial sector miles away rushing towards him at impossible speed. Sarah. He had to get there.
Miles away, Belinda stared at her phone's blank screen in her messy bedroom. A couple of sad balloons drooped on the wall.
Okay. Well... have a... good day then, I guess. Her own voice echoed back, falsely bright.
Happy Birthday. His voice had sounded… weird. Strained. But didn't it always?
Her hand clenched around the phone. It's okay. Why did she always say that? Make it easy for him?
With a choked sob, she hurled the phone across the room. It bounced off the wall and landed softly in the laundry basket.
She threw herself face-down on the bed, muffling a scream into her pillow – a long, frustrated sound of disappointment. A whole year talking to this guy, and still nothing. Was she an idiot?
"Wow. Take it down a notch," a dry voice commented.
Belinda lifted her head. Her younger sister, Chloe, sat cross-legged on a beanbag chair, finally looking up from her phone. "Let me guess. Mr. Mysterious cancelled? Shocker."
Belinda sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Something came up," she mumbled. "Unavoidable."
Chloe snorted. "Right. Like he suddenly realized he forgot to feed his unicorn." She put her phone down. "Seriously, B? I told you so."
"You don't know him," Belinda insisted weakly.
"And you don't either, do you?" Chloe shot back, her tone softening just a tiny bit. "Look, maybe he sounds cool online. But guys who are always busy, who always have secrets?" She leaned in. "Best case, he's boring and married. Worst case, he's a total creep just playing games."
Belinda winced. "He's not like that."
"How do you know?" Chloe asked pointedly. "Seriously, Belinda. After a year, what do you really know about him? Are you even sure he's real?"
The question hung there, sharp and cold, puncturing the last of Belinda's hope. Are you even sure he's real?