The man was crying. Kneeling on a leather chair, hands clasped together, he wept. He looked to be in his mid-forties. His suit was expensive, but now it was drenched with sweat. "Please. I can't take it anymore. My family... my children..." The room had no windows. Deep crimson velvet covered all four walls, and ebony shelves lined with bottles of liquor. Only the fireplace flickered with orange light. Blackwood Damon stood before the fireplace, looking down at the man. He was tall. One hundred eighty-eight centimeters, lean, his black three-piece suit fitting his frame perfectly. His lustrous black hair was meticulously groomed, his white shirt collar pristine and unwrinkled. His features were almost too refined for a human. His apparent age was around thirty-five. But his eyes were not human. Deep red. His pupils were vertically slit, and when they caught the fireplace flames, they glowed with the slow, reptilian light of a predator. "Your family, then." His voice was low