"Listen, Peter," Jennings said, coming a little closer to him, "I understand what you're going through. You want to love and be loved, but don't look for love among the dead, believe me!"
The words brought a smile to Peter's face. He looked up, and for the first time in a long time, something resembling a slight sense of relief flashed through his eyes.
"What are you saying?" Peter said with a grin. "You're starting to sound like Shakespeare! All this about love, the dead and the living... as if you just stepped off the stage yourself."
Jennings snorted, but a spark of goodwill flickered in his eyes.
"Well, if you want, I can add a couple more lines," he said, pursing his lips as if thinking. "Like, what does a shadow whisper when the light fades? Or something like that."
Peter laughed, and it was the first real laugh he'd made in a long time. It didn't sound like a loud, forced laugh, but more like a release-like the tension that had been clenching his chest had finally been released.
"Are you kidding me?" he asked, laughing. "It's definitely Shakespeare, only without the suit and gloves."
"Oh, I'm not good enough to make jokes like Shakespeare," Jennings replied with a grin. "But if you insist, I can try to give you a few life lessons. Just remember: they're from real life, not plays."
Peter closed his eyes, laughing a little more, but this time with relief, feeling the tension that had held him in an iron grip for so long gradually recede. There was more than joy in that laughter - it was a release, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders, one he hadn't realized how long he had been carrying. Jennings stood nearby, slightly puzzled, but he, too, couldn't help but notice how lighter the room had become, how the air itself had become softer.
Nevertheless, his gaze involuntarily slid to the desk drawer in which he had hidden the girl's photograph. The drawer was now closed, but the moment when he himself had hung the photograph on the wall was still spinning in Jennings's mind. He remembered how, a few weeks ago, he had hastily picked up this photograph, which had attracted his attention with its unusual beauty, and had decided that it would be good if it decorated his studio. No one would have thought that this picture would be the source of such worries for the boy.
"How could I have been so stupid?" Jennings thought, cursing himself for his thoughtlessness.
He watched Peter continue to stand by the window, his arms wrapped around himself a little, as if this world beyond the glass now seemed to him something much more real and tangible than everything that had been before. Jennings felt guilty before him. He himself had put up this picture, and now the boy, instead of meeting a bright day, had fallen under the influence of some dead girl, who had become for him something much more than just an image in a picture.
"What's wrong, Jennings?" Peter suddenly said, as if he'd heard his thoughts. He turned around, a slight smile on his face, but there was still a certain thoughtfulness in his eyes. "What are you planning? You're scaring me again with your silence."
Jennings winced slightly and, shaking his head, walked over to the table. He opened the drawer again and took out the photograph. The boy noticed that his hands were shaking slightly as he put the picture in the drawer. Jennings sighed heavily as he closed it.
"I just..." he began, choosing his words carefully. "You know, Peter, I blame myself for putting that picture out there. You were too close, and it affected you. I didn't even think it could affect you that much.
Peter looked at him with surprise and some kind of light, ironic kindness.
"It's all right, Jennings. It's my fault. I let that photo get into my head. It's just a picture."
Peter looked at Jennings with a small smile, as if he were releasing something invisible. He felt like he was finally letting go of all the weight that had been weighing on his shoulders lately. He knew he shouldn't make such a big deal out of nothing, but admitting it made him feel both relieved and ashamed.
Jennings nodded, his expression softening. He knew Peter had just taken an important step.
"You're right," Jennings said with a small smile. "I'm glad you realized that. You were trapped in this vicious circle, but now you're finally looking at things with a clear head again. It's nothing more than a picture, Peter. And all your worrying about it is a waste of energy. You don't want to spend your whole life attached to dead things."
Peter sighed quietly, a note of realization in his voice.
"No, I don't want to. It was all stupid. And thank you, Jennings, for hiding the photo. You helped me see it. Without you, I probably would never have realized how stupid I was acting."
Jennings looked at the boy with warmth and understanding. He knew that for Peter this was not just a step forward – it was a moment of awakening. And although Jennings himself did not consider himself a great psychologist or a wise mentor, he was glad that he could be there at this moment when Peter finally understood the importance of letting go.
"You made that move yourself, Peter," Jennings replied. "I just showed you the way. And you, you decided to move in the right direction. It's important to understand that we can't live stuck in the past. Everything changes. And we must be able to adapt, to move forward."
Peter nodded, feeling his chest make room for new thoughts, new decisions. He no longer felt that heavy guilt that had haunted him like a shadow since he had started looking obsessively at the photograph. He still remembered the girl's face, her eyes, but now it was just an image, not something that was going to dictate his life.
"Thank you, Jennings," he said again, but now there was confidence in his voice. "For a long time I couldn't understand why I was so worried. It really wasn't important. I was so focused on one thing that I lost sight of everything else. But now I see that the world is so much bigger than this. Thank you for reminding me of that."
Jennings smiled, though there was something in his eyes that only someone who had been through something similar could understand.
"You're welcome, Peter," he said with a slight smile. "Out of sight, out of mind, as the Russians say. As soon as I hid this photo, you forgot about it. It's okay!"
Peter looked at him, and there was gratitude in his eyes. It was a moment of truth, when everything suddenly fell into place. He felt like he had taken a step back, out of the fog he had created for himself. And if it hadn't been for Jennings, he might have continued to torment himself in vain.
"You know," Peter said, turning to Jennings, "I probably just rarely look at photographs in general. As you know, I read books more, and movies and comics are not my thing. So, out of habit, I got fixated on the first photo I came across."
Jennings chuckled, trying to hide his slight irritation.
"You really don't understand how this works, do you? You're like the lieutenant from the old movie, who's all in himself, and the world around him is just a backdrop."
Peter chuckled in response, but seemed ready to take these words more philosophically.
"A photograph is just a picture," Jennings continued. "But when you get hung up on it, when you stare at it, it starts to capture your attention, to twist your imagination. It's like a trap. Instead of living, you start to get stuck in some memory."
Peter nodded. It made sense. He noticed how Jennings' words were becoming more and more true.
"Yes, you're probably right," he said with a slight grin. "Just because I'm not used to such things. To looking at one thing for so long. I usually get immersed in books, and it completely captivates me. And here... a photo. Just a picture, as you said."
Jennings looked thoughtfully into the distance. He paused for a moment before answering.
"Books give you an idea of the world. But you choose what to delve into. A photo... a photo captivates you with one glance, and you can't tear yourself away until you realize that you don't need it anymore."
Peter listened thoughtfully to Jennings, trying to digest his words. He felt himself gradually freeing himself from the oppressive thoughts that had held him captive until now. But this time, something in his soul had changed. He looked away from the table where the box with the photograph lay and looked out the window.
"Books give you an idea of the world..." he repeated Jennings' words to himself. "But a photo... a photo takes you away in one glance.
His gaze lingered on the old buildings in the courtyard, reflecting the dim rays of the sun. And then, unexpectedly for himself, he said:
"Jennings, can I try again? This time, not as a spectator, but as a participant. Do you mind if I try to get into the photo shoot?"
Jennings, who was standing at the table at that moment, straightening out some papers, looked up. A spark of surprise flashed in his eyes, but he said nothing, just watched Peter for a moment in silence. Apparently he thought it would be good for the boy to give him a chance to see the photograph from the other side.
"Let's put it this way," he began, "I have a gentleman scheduled for one o'clock. If you want, I can let you see how a real photo shoot goes. Just don't expect it to be anything special."
Peter, feeling a slight sense of relief, immediately stood up and ran to the door. It was an unexpected offer, and he was ready to accept it. His eyes lit up with interest.
"Really? So I can watch you film?"
Jennings nodded and clenched his fingers to check the time on his old, scratched watch. He didn't have time to explain all the details to Peter, but he felt it was a chance for the boy to step back and see the other side of photography, the one that left a mark on people's lives rather than tormenting their memories.
"Yes," Jennings said, rising from his chair and going to the mirror to straighten his tie. "Come with me, if you're interested. I have some pictures to take for a client, but you're welcome to watch. Just don't interfere, and stay quiet."
Peter nodded, his eyes sparkling with interest. He was glad that he could now not only watch, but participate in the process, at least as an observer. He followed Jennings and they walked through a small room filled with various cameras, old frames, and rolls of film. The atmosphere was slightly stagnant, as if time had stood still. Peter glanced around, noticing the photographs hanging on the walls. He could have spent hours looking at them, but for now he was focused on what was happening in front of him.
"Is it here?" he asked as they entered the shooting room. It was dim inside, lit by a few powerful softboxes and lights aimed at a humanoid silhouette. An old camera with a long lens and a tripod sat in the corner, ready for action.
Jennings nodded and began to set up equipment.
"Yes, here. This is my working studio. It's sad that it's so small, but it has everything you need. Sometimes I have to shoot in such conditions."
Peter watched Jennings' every move with interest. The photographer adjusted the lights with precision, moved the camera, changed angles, and tested different backgrounds. He was in his element, confident and collected, as if he knew how each shot should look before he even pressed the button. Peter couldn't take his eyes off him, amazed at how much work went into each photo, and how complex the process was to create something that could ultimately seem simple and natural. All he had known about photography before was the surface: just a moment captured on film. But now, looking at Jennings, he began to understand that there was more to each moment.
Peter moved closer, watching quietly and with interest as the photographer adjusted the focus and lit the subject, even though there was nothing in the room yet. It all seemed so well thought out that Peter wondered why he hadn't thought about all this preparation before.
Suddenly Jennings' phone vibrated. He quickly pulled it out of his pocket and pressed the answer button.
"Yes, I'm listening." Jennings's voice was stern and reserved, as it always was when he was talking to clients or on business matters.
Peter didn't interrupt, choosing to remain in the shadows and focus on what was going on around him. He could only hear bits of the conversation as Jennings confirmed the meeting time, answered questions, and ironed out the final details.
"Okay, he'll be there in 15 minutes," Jennings said in response to a question. "I'm waiting. See you soon."
After he ended the call, Peter noticed how professionally he went back to his preparations. Jennings put the phone down on the table and turned to Peter.
"The client will be here in a few minutes. You can stay here and watch the shoot if you want." He glanced at Peter with a small smile. "But don't try to interfere, okay? This is important work, and you should just watch.
Peter nodded, still processing the information about how much he needed to know and take into account to conduct a normal photo shoot. He had never thought that photography was not just the ability to press a button, but a whole complex of actions, preparations and subtleties.
"Sure, I'll just watch." Peter smiled and sat down on a chair in the corner, his gaze returning to it again, but now he was watching with much more attention.
As time went on, the studio filled with a gentle buzz, like people getting ready to work but not yet taking action. Jennings moved the cameras, checking the equipment, and took notes on a tablet. He seemed calm and confident, as if everything was already under control. Peter sensed this state of confidence and professionalism that emanated from Jennings. It was this calm and focus on the process that attracted attention, making every move of the photographer important and meaningful.
When the sound of a car finally arrived, Jennings instantly became active. He took one last look at the camera settings and paused for a moment, as if checking that everything was in place. Then he quickly walked to the mirror, straightened his tie, adjusted the creases in his suit, and looked at Peter with a quiet but confident expression.
"Peter," he said with an almost imperceptible smile, "I'm going out now to meet the client. You sit as quiet as a mouse, got it? Don't stick your head out. The client won't like it if he sees someone extra during the shoot."
Peter nodded, although he felt curious. He wanted to ask who the mysterious man was for whom all this preparation was being made, but Jennings was already heading towards the corridor. He silently pulled on his coat and, without looking back, said:
"I'll be back in a minute. Sit still."
Peter, unable to contain his excitement, settled into a chair by the window. It was dark outside, only the dim light from the street lamps filtered into the studio, painting the room a dull yellow. He tugged nervously at the edge of his sleeve and tried to imagine who this client was for whom Jennings was so carefully preparing everything. It was strange - if Jennings was so calm and confident, then the client could not be an ordinary person.
Jennings's words, his calm, firm instructions, were still swirling around in his head. Everything he had been worried about about the photo had turned out to be nothing more than exaggerated emotions. It had all been stupid. And although he tried to focus on what was happening in the studio, his thoughts kept returning to these events. Peter barely noticed how time had flown by as he looked at the dusty shelves lined with useless things: old photo albums, frames without pictures, a few boxes that probably contained odds and ends that someone had forgotten.
The sound of footsteps outside brought him out of his reverie. At first he paid no attention to it-perhaps it was Jennings, returning from the hallway. But then the sound of voices came from behind the wall, and Peter caught a strange combination of words. One of them was Jennings's voice, sharp and calm, but the other... the other was alien, and its timbre seemed slightly hoarse, like a man with a bad cold.
Peter sat up a little, trying not to make too much noise. He peered out the small window that looked out onto the hallway, hoping to see something, but the glass was covered in dust, and only the dim light of the street lamps was visible from outside.
"...problems..." a fragment of a phrase uttered by an unfamiliar voice reached his ears. "I explained everything... I'll come on Monday, and the issue will be resolved."
Peter swallowed, unable to stop himself from eavesdropping. The voice was strange-intermittent, strained, and the unnatural rasp seemed to convey a hidden anxiety. He moved toward the door again, rising quietly on tiptoe, trying not to make any noise. The voices were becoming clearer.
"It'll be fine," Jennings replied. He sounded much more confident than the stranger. "As I said, meeting in the studio is a good opportunity. We'll do everything as agreed."
Peter couldn't sit still any longer. He was curious about what exactly was going on in the hallway. It was always quiet and calm in this studio, but now something was clearly disturbing the usual atmosphere. Everything was somehow tense. He went to the door, opened it a little, so that he could hear the conversation even better.
"But are you sure that all these people..." the stranger interrupted again. Now his voice was even hoarser, as if he was pressing his hand to his throat. "I don't want any surprises."
Jennings remained calm, his voice even and confident.
"I told you. We'll do everything in order. Rest assured. You'll get what you need."
Peter felt his heart begin to beat faster. This conversation clearly had nothing to do with the usual filming. Who was this man? And why did his voice sound so strange?
A few seconds later, Jennings entered the studio, followed by the same man whose voice Peter had heard a few seconds earlier. He was tall, with sharp features, but his eyes were somehow restless, as if he were in some kind of internal conflict. Peter, not knowing what to do, quickly returned to his chair and sat down again.
"Peter," Jennings said, as if he hadn't noticed the tension in the boy's voice, "my client is about to walk in here. He'll just find a place to hang his coat and then he'll be right in. For God's sake, don't stick your head out and irritate him, understand?"
Peter nodded quietly, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, and he felt the air in the room grow thick, as if under pressure. He heard footsteps, the soft creaking of a coat as the stranger crossed the hallway, and the sound of the door closing behind him. It all seemed to be happening far away, in another world, but inside the studio he felt it filling the space with anticipation.
The boy sat still, trying not to show any sign of agitation, although everything inside him was seething. He could not understand why this meeting bothered him so much. Perhaps it was because this stranger was too mysterious, too alien to the world he was used to living in. All Peter knew about him was his voice, something hoarse, with a slight hint of fatigue, and yet his confidence was palpable.
A few moments later, the shadow of a stranger cut through the studio light like a ghost cutting through the air, and Peter, despite his desire to remain invisible, couldn't help but look up. He didn't see the man himself at first, only his shadow, which grew and spread along the walls as he stepped into the room. It was long, with angular lines, and Peter noticed that the stranger's figure, judging by the shadow, was tall and slender, and his gait was confident and measured. His shadow seemed almost monumental against the old walls of the studio.
The man finally stepped into the studio light, but his attention was immediately absorbed by finding a place to hang his coat, and he turned his back on Peter. The boy, not wanting to show his interest, continued to sit on the chair in the corner, but he could not help but notice that the man was tall, with short, neatly trimmed hair. His formal suit was perfectly tailored, as if custom-made, and sat on him without a single crease. Everything about his appearance, from his smart posture to the slightest movement, spoke of the fact that he was accustomed to being the center of attention.
Peter watched him quietly, trying not to give himself away. He knew he should remain quiet, as Jennings had instructed. But he still couldn't help but look up and study the stranger. There was something odd about this man all of a sudden. It wasn't that Peter felt threatened, but rather that there was something mysterious about him that made him wary.
When Jennings turned to the man with a smile, greeting him as an old acquaintance, Peter couldn't help but feel his heart skip a beat.
"Mr. Thorn, it's good to see you. I apologize for the delay. The weather today is not the best for walking," Jennings said, addressing the man with a slight sarcasm in his voice, as if it were a casual greeting.
The man, his back to him, didn't answer right away. His voice, when he finally got a few words out, was even and calm, with a hint of irritation, as if he'd just pulled himself out of something unpleasant. But Peter didn't focus on that. He was focused on the name Jennings had said. Thorn.
That word, that sharp, almost metallic sound of the last name, like lightning in his mind. "Thorn." The nightmare from which he woke up with a cold sweat on his forehead instantly popped into the boy's head. In the dream, where his alter ego, Jerome, was at the center of what was happening, it all began with the fact that Jo, the agent with whom Jerome was trying to figure out what had happened, suddenly reached for her face and took off her mask. Jerome, stunned and not understanding what was happening, froze when a man appeared under the mask instead of Jo. The man's face was so familiar that Jerome froze, unable to believe his eyes.
It was Damien Thorn.
Peter knew this man. He had seen him on TV, heard about this politician, and remembered that several years ago his death had become a real mystery. Official sources reported that Thorn had died under unclear circumstances. His body had never been found, and rumors that he was alive had grown overgrown with many versions. But here, in his dream, he, on behalf of Jerome, saw him alive, with that icy, hard look that cut through everything around him.
"No, it's impossible..." Peter whispered, feeling his own heart squeeze in his chest, as if the darkness of that dream was about to swallow him up again.
Peter sat in his chair, feeling his every breath become heavier, his heart beat faster. The silence rang in his ears, and every sound coming from Jennings and the stranger seemed heightened, almost unbearable. The name Thorn was like an ominous scar on his mind. It awakened in him the memory of a nightmare that he thought was far behind him. But now, in this studio, a man with the same name as in his dream stood before him. He did not know what to do, how to react, and he was afraid that if he looked at the man's face, he would see in him the living embodiment of the nightmare that had tormented him a few days ago.
He felt his palms begin to sweat, and, unable to sit any longer, barely holding back his fear, he tried to take a deep breath. The man, standing with his back to him, was talking to Jennings, but Peter could not concentrate on the words. All he could do was watch his silhouette, watching his figure stand out in the dim light of the studio. Tall, with short dark hair, a sharp suit... It all seemed too familiar, but Peter, unable to overcome the anxiety, continued to keep his gaze away, trying not to allow himself to see his face.
"Here we are," Jennings said, turning to the man, who had apparently finished a sentence. "As always, happy to help."
Peter froze in place, and one thought was spinning in his head:
"If I look now, if I see his face, it could be... him. It could be Damien Thorn. But if I don't look, I'll live with this fear. Maybe I'm wrong?"
He looked down at his hands and suddenly felt as if his world was closing in. It was that moment when reality and his fears became intertwined into one fuzzy whole.
Peter sat, almost clutching the chair in his hands, trying to ease the growing tension. His thoughts were racing in different directions, trying to find a logical explanation for what was happening.
"What if it really is just a coincidence?" he kept repeating to himself, but the inner anxiety, like a thickening fog, did not leave him.
Everything about the man, from his name to his manner, was reminiscent of Damien Thorn. But Peter wasn't sure he wanted to know the truth.
No matter how hard he tried to hide in the shadows of his mind, reality kept catching up with him. The stranger clearly knew what was happening, that the boy was feeling something, that he was worried about something. The man, without turning to face Peter, took a few steps into the studio, as if deliberately avoiding direct contact. His steps became quiet, almost noiseless. Peter couldn't help but notice how he moved - slowly, but with excessive confidence, as if the very air around him had become heavy.
"Well then," Thorn said, his voice still level, almost indifferent, breaking the silence, "let's begin."
Peter felt his temples tighten at his words. He couldn't see the man, but he heard every word. Everything about that voice was so familiar. His intonation, his timbre, even the way he spoke-it was all the same as in his nightmare. He felt panic rising inside him again, like something irresistible was pulling him into the abyss of his own experiences and fears.
Meanwhile, Jennings bustled about, adjusting the camera settings, checking the lighting and background. He was completely absorbed in the process of preparing the shoot, and his actions were precise, almost mechanical. Peter, sitting in the corner, felt how every movement of the photographer increased his growing anxiety. Jennings did not look back at him, as if the boy were not in the room at all. All his concentration was directed at the client, who seemed to be the main character of this moment.
Peter sat there with difficulty, his hands clasped in his lap, trying to ignore the intense gaze that he felt on his back like an invisible weight. He watched Jennings set up the lights, barely noticing him, adjusting the equipment with ease, confidently moving around the studio. It all seemed so normal and natural to Jennings that Peter couldn't help but think how calm he felt in the midst of it all. Whereas for Peter, every detail, every movement caused a little anxiety.
The boy, unable to sit in the silent shadows any longer, weakly swung his leg and still looked at the man standing opposite him. Thorn, still hidden from his direct gaze, was focused on his conversation with Jennings, not paying attention to the fact that the boy was sitting nearby. Peter felt his heart beating faster and faster, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to remain invisible. The man, although standing with his back to him, seemed so real, so close, that Peter even felt his presence filling the room.
As Jennings finished giving Thorne his instructions, the atmosphere in the room grew especially tense. Peter felt his own breathing become heavy, as if a lump had lodged itself in his chest. He couldn't quite place what was happening, but everything in the studio-the light, the shadows, the breathing-felt alien and ominous. And then, suddenly, Jennings, perhaps oblivious to the effect his words might have, said something that immediately caught his attention.
"Let's hurry up, the boy is not comfortable sitting in the corner," he said in a light, even slightly embarrassed tone, as if this was nothing more than an insignificant detail that should be ignored.
The words hung in the air like a heavy weapon, creeping up on Peter unnoticed. The boy froze, his heart skipping a beat. He didn't know what Jennings meant, but in the next moment, everything changed.
Thorn, who was standing nearby, turned sharply and his eyes widened as if he had just been struck by lightning. His face was flushed with indignation, and his voice, previously cold and controlled, now broke into a furious shout.
"A boy? What boy?" Thorn growled, every word that came out of his mouth seemed to be filled with hatred. "Are you completely insane, Jennings?! Do you think you can let just anyone in here? This... this boy shouldn't be here! Get him out! Tell him to leave right now!"
Peter couldn't help but let his eyes widen in fear and confusion. He couldn't understand why Thorn's reaction was so violent, why he had suddenly and without reason attacked Jennings. He was trying to figure out what exactly was wrong with this situation.
However, Thorn continued to shout without stopping, becoming increasingly more furious:
"I don't want to work with you anymore, Jennings! You violated the contract! You invited a stranger here - that's already a violation! Consider that you've lost me! From this moment on, I'll never set foot in your studio again!"
Jennings paled, but his face remained still, his eyes narrowing only for a moment as he realized what he was doing. He tried to say something, but Thorn didn't give him a chance.
"No, I said it all! You violated all the conditions! I'm leaving!" Thorn not only shouted, but also stepped forward, menacingly pointing his finger towards the exit, as if it was an order that was not subject to discussion.
Peter sat there, completely at a loss. He was both frightened and confused. His thoughts were in a tangle, he didn't know how to react. He could see that Jennings was confused, something had changed in his expression, but he stood silently, not taking a single step towards this raging man.
"I'm sorry," Jennings finally said, in an apologetic tone that seemed forced, "I really didn't think it would make you so angry. But he's just..." He paused, clearly aware that the word "boy" had sounded completely inappropriate.
Thorn, ignoring Jennings' apology, turned and, gritting his teeth, headed for the curtain behind which Peter was sitting. He walked with such fury that each step he took echoed heavily in the silence of the studio. Peter, terrified, felt his blood run cold. He knew that in the next second he would be discovered - and it would not be just an encounter with an unpleasant stranger, but an encounter with someone who clearly did not hide his indignation.
The man walked up to the curtain, grabbed it by the edge and pulled it back with a sharp movement, as if he had pulled an invisible barrier out of the air. The curtain fell apart, and Peter found himself face to face with this sinister man. His heart sank. He felt the air in the room become thick, as if everything around him had shrunk, and his own thoughts were swallowed up by the void.
When Peter's eyes met the man's, the boy's heart sank. Everything around him suddenly froze, and his breath seemed to freeze in his throat. He had seen those eyes before. He had seen them in a nightmare, where this man became the embodiment of fear, an unknown threat that could not be dealt with.
And now, this man stood before him. He was just like in the dream - with a hard jawline, with cold, lifeless eyes that penetrated the soul, as if searching for something hidden and dark there. This look was not just stern or even sinister - it was piercing, there was not an ounce of warmth or understanding in it. It was a look that made your heart beat faster with horror.
Peter couldn't take his eyes off the man. He was a living nightmare, made real right here in this studio where there shouldn't have been any room for horror. His mind was still trying to process what was happening, but some instinct told him that this wasn't an accident. There was no way that a man like this would show up right now.
It was Damien Thorn.