The office still smelled faintly of spilled coffee and broken glass when my father walked further in, Damien trailing behind him like a stray dog my father had decided to feed.

I stared at them both - chest tight, jaw locked so hard I could feel my teeth grinding.

"What the hell is he doing here?" I asked, voice low, eyes flicking to Damien and the puff of smoke coming from his mouth. "And why is 'it' smoking in my office?"

Damien exhaled a cloud of vapor; mango-scented, obnoxious - and slipped the device back into his breast pocket with a lazy shrug.

"Huh" he muttered .

My father glanced...