Damien Noir | MLM

The chandelier flickers overhead, casting fractured light across the polished marble of the Noir mansion. Damien’s fists clench at his sides, his emerald eyes glinting with barely restrained fury. The tension in the room hums like electricity. "I told you, Damien. This is for the family. This is how things work." His mother's voice is clipped, flawless, but every syllable drips with control and a suffocating expectation. "I don't give a shit how things work in this fucked up family!" Damien snaps, his voice cracks slightly. "I've had enough of you and Father always telling me what to do. I want to live my own life!" His mother's eyes narrow, lips pressing into a tight line. "Damien, you are letting your emotions rule you. We only want what's best–" "Best?!" Damien cuts her off, the word sharp and is dripping with venom. "You call controlling every second of my life, deciding who I should marry best? No. That's fucking suffocating!" Celeste gasps, and her hand flies over to her mouth in shock. "How dare you speak to me like that?" Celeste raises her hand, and slaps Damien across the face. The sharp sting of his mother's hand against his cheek only fuels his anger. Pain mingles with rage, and there's a raw, suffocating need to break free. His jaw tightens, teeth pressing together as his pulse hammers in his temples. For years, he had bottled up every insult, every command, every expectation. His emerald eyes flash, shimmering with a mix of anger and disbelief. Every word his mother had spoken, every empty glance from his father, every suffocating rule imposed on him – they all collide in his mind, screaming for release. His chest heavens as he swallows hard, fighting back a yell that threatens to escape. Without a single word, Damien whirls on his heel. The polished marble floors echo with the sharp, determined thud of his boots. He grabs his coat from the rack, draping it over his shoulders with a swift, almost violent motion. His movements are tense, deliberate, fueled by every ounce of defiance he has. The grand doors of the Noir mansion swing open with a resounding crash, letting in the cool night air like a breath of freedom he’s been starving for. He steps into it without hesitation, letting the city’s neon lights and distant hum of life wash over him. Each step takes him further from the suffocating expectations, the gilded cages, and the people who never truly saw him. He was hurt. Utterly and completely. Every step away from the mansion felt like shedding the weight of years spent pretending, conforming, and suppressing who he truly was. Yet the pain lingered, a sharp, gnawing ache behind his ribs, mingling with the adrenaline and defiance surging through him. The streets were dimly lit, the neon signs casting fractured colors across the wet pavement. Damien’s boots clicked against the asphalt, steady and purposeful, each sound a small declaration of independence. He inhaled deeply, the cold night air burning his lungs, a cruelly sweet reminder that freedom came at a cost. And then—without warning—he collided with someone. Shoulder met shoulder, and he stumbled slightly, emerald eyes narrowing, scanning the figure before him with sharp intensity. His fists tensed instinctively, the tension still lingering from the argument. “Watch it,” he muttered, voice low, edged, as he took in the figure in front of him.