THE DAEMON AND THE INTERN

The entire world was black, and the only sounds Caleb could hear were the sounds of a car plundering forward. His destination was unknown, but his fate was clear as day. This was the day Caleb Johnson was going to die. He was going to die at the hands of the Daemon. Something grabbed his hand, and pulled him out of the car door. With his eyesight gone, his hearing became hypervigilant. He could hear every footstep, inching forward on what sounded like gravel. He could feel the rocks shifting underneath his sneakers, hear the way the bag they'd put over his head scraped against his golden blonde hair, and he could feel the cold night air on his ivory skin. A door opened straight ahead, and he was pushed over a small step, causing him to trip, and fumble around on the ground for a while. He tried to pry the piece of material off his face, but it was a fruitless effort, as the rough skin of his captor caught his clothed arm once again, and pulled him up from the cold cement floor. His captor pushed him forwards, into the fray, where he could hear loud jazz music emanating from a room of some sorts straight ahead. The muffled sounds of the jazz music became louder as someone opened a door in front of him, and without warning he was pushed into a room once again, and the door shut abruptly behind him. The jazz music was assaulting his ears, the snare drums, the loud saxophone, the contrabass, all of it like some deadly symphony. It stopped suddenly, and the room was overtaken by an unbearable silence. However, Caleb preferred this over the assaulting jazz music. Footsteps inched closer to him, and a shadow fell over his already darkened vision. He could feel the person's breath on his face, smell the whiskey in their breath. The light invaded his vision as the bag was pulled from his head, and his golden hair fell into his face. It took a while for his eyes to refocus, and once they did, he stood in front of him. The man who was going to end his life. Caleb didn't know his name, in fact no one did, he was one of the Light's best kept secrets. His name was the one you heard passing by abandoned bars, and murder scenes as the policemen scratched their heads. His name was the one you heard while a gun pressed against your temple, the silencer compressing the noise, but the drop of your dead body deafening. He was the Daemon, and Caleb knew, now that he'd seen this mythical creature's face, he was destined to die. He looked like any other man, with thick eyebrows, a slight stubble gracing his once sharp jaw. His eyes were a stormy grey, and his mouth pulling downwards with wrinkles. There was just something so threatening about this man, something that paralyzed Caleb.

"Hello, little man," he spoke, his voice raspy like that of an old smoker, "or should I say, little agent?" Caleb couldn't do anything, he could only watch the Daemon move to a desk in the corner of the dimly lit room, and retrieve what looked like his personnel file.

"I'm sure you know who I am, so let's skip the formalities, shall we, Grant? Or should I say, Caleb?" He turned back to Caleb, whose hands had started shaking out of their own accord.

"I'm going to offer you a deal," the Daemon spoke, his voice ever-so-serious, "tell me who this woman is, and I'll consider keeping you alive." He flashed a picture of an Asian woman in front of Caleb's eyes. Her eyes were dark as the night, her skin pale as the snow, her lips like a cherry blossom petal. Her knew who she was the minute he surveyed her eyes.

"I'm only- I'm only an intern, I don't know the higher ups." He tried to lie, but the Daemon saw right through his dim-witted lie.

"I thought we were skipping the formalities, Caleb," the Daemon tut-tutted, "who is she?"

Caleb chewed on his bottom lip, there was no denying that the Daemon was serious, and maybe, just maybe if he revealed who she was, then he'd get to live. There was a silver of hope waiting for him if he could only be a little disloyal. He couldn't bring himself to do it, all of the agents were in the same boat now, with the Agency no longer around to protect them, they were all scattering, trying to get away from the people they'd put away.

"I don't know." He said, this time a lot more confident. The Daemon let out a long, annoyed sigh and spun around on his heels. He was surprisingly lithe. He stomped over to a table, and from it he grabbed a gun, screwing on the suppressor as he walked back over to Caleb. The barrel was cold against Caleb's sweaty forehead, and it made it even harder to move. As if he couldn't move before, now it felt like his feet had been driven into the ground with spikes. The Daemon flicked off the safety, and looked to his watch.

"Seriously, you're going to die for your superior? While that's noble and all, no one's that stupid." The Daemon remarked sarcastically.

"I can't- she- I-" Caleb couldn't formulate a proper sentence even to save his life. He was going to die and his last words were going to be a jumble of verbs and nouns that didn't even make sense. Involuntarily, tears started leaking from his eyes.

"I'm touched," the Daemon wiped one of his tears, and pressed the barrel against Caleb's head, so hard he almost staggered back, "but it's not going to make me spare you."

His life flashed before his eyes, and he let out a strangled sob, "her name is Fen Song. I don't know her full name, I promise!" He sobbed into the barrel of the gun. A sick smile spread over the Daemon's face as he pulled the trigger.

"Did I say I would spare you? Sorry, I'm a bad liar." He shrugged, wiping some blood off of his cheek. Satisfaction coursed through his veins like good whiskey would, making him reel with bliss. He'd found her, the woman who'd brought him down, the one woman he'd ever respected, and the only woman he'd ever, truly hated. He needed to watch her die. Fen Song. May Wong. Whatever her name was. The stage was set. The director ready at his seat. The actors rushed behind the scenes, readying their guns and suppressors, putting on their masks, and she sat in a make-up chair. Her face obscured by the mask she wore, a gun pointed at the giant red dot in the middle of her mask. And he held the gun.

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