Eamon sat at a corner table in Wicked Wings, the fried chicken shop bustling with life around him. The savory scent of fried food filled the air, but it didn't do much to lift his spirits. His hands were clasped in front of him, fingers interlaced, and his eyes were downcast. He hadn't touched the basket of fries in front of him, the pile growing cold by the minute.
Across from him sat Arc, his usual serious demeanor softened slightly as he observed the young Malach before him. Crescent, Quill, and Gibbous were also present, sitting around the table with varying degrees of attention and focus.
Arc broke the silence first. "Roy said you did well, considering the circumstances."
Eamon didn't respond immediately, his mind still replaying the fight over and over. The way the demon had laughed at him, the way it had clawed at him with ease, and worst of all—the way he had failed to seal it. His jaw clenched as he exhaled slowly. "It didn't feel like I did well."
