Cherry held his gaze for a few seconds, absorbing every detail—the dried blood clinging to her hair, the fresh blood still trickling down her jawline, her heavy, stained clothing, the metallic smell that filled the air uninvited. There was no shock on her face, no revulsion. Only calculation.

"I’m going to investigate who did this to you," she said finally, directly, without beating around the bush, as if already organizing names and consequences in her head. "And I apologize for this happening here."

The silence that followed wasn’t one of acceptance.

It was one of bewilderment.

Damon tilted his head slightly, his eyes fixed on her with a clear trace of distrust, as if trying to understand if this was some kind of game or just... incoherence.

"...since when do you talk to me like that?" he questioned, his voice low, but laden with evident skepticism.

Cherry shrugged.

A simple gesture.

Without apparent weight.

"Ever since I understood my place," she replied without hesitation, as if it were the most obvious conclusion in the world. "And also ever since it became clear that treating you badly is something only an idiot would do."

She slowly uncrossed her legs, rising from her chair with a fluid movement, completely at ease despite the situation.

"Besides," she continued, walking a few steps toward him, stopping at a comfortable distance, "I need a favor from you."

Damon didn’t answer immediately.

But his gaze shifted slightly.

Interest.

Slight.

Controlled.

"And you think asking for a favor right after apologizing improves your chances?" he retorted, in a dry, almost automatic tone.

Cherry let out a small sigh through her nose, as if it were too predictable to warrant a real reaction.

"It doesn’t improve things," she said simply. "But it won’t get worse either."

She walked past him without asking permission, already heading for the side door of the room.

"And honestly, talking to you like this..." she made a vague gesture with her hand, indicating his state from head to toe, "...doesn’t help anyone."

She opened the door, stopping in the frame and looking over her shoulder.

"Come on," she said, without raising her voice. "I’ll take you to a room."

A brief pause.

"You need to take a shower before any serious conversation. You’re leaving a trail through my casino."

Damon let out a soft sound through his nose, something between a short laugh and a tired exhalation.

He looked at his own hands for a second.

Blood.

A lot.

Then he looked at the floor.

More.

Then he looked back at Cherry.

"...fair enough," he murmured.

Without arguing.

Without resistance.

He started walking.

Following.

The two left the room, entering a quieter corridor, far from the constant noise of the main hall. The atmosphere there was different—more controlled, cleaner, with softer lighting and fewer people circulating.

The sound of Damon’s footsteps was heavy.

Not because of the difficulty.

But because of the impact.

Each step left small marks on the polished floor, discreet, but visible enough for anyone to notice afterward.

Cherry didn’t comment.

But she noticed.

Of course she noticed.

She went ahead, guiding with precision, turning into internal corridors that were clearly not accessible to the general public. Employees who crossed the path stopped automatically, swerving without question, some glancing too quickly at Damon before lowering their gaze.

No one said anything.

No one dared.

They reached a door further back.

Cherry opened it without ceremony.

The room was spacious, functional, clearly prepared for important guests—a large bed, well-placed furniture, and, most importantly at that moment, a visibly well-equipped bathroom.

She went in first, walking into the room and opening the bathroom door with a simple movement.

"Everything you need is in there," she said, leaning lightly against the wall beside the entrance. "Clean clothes too. They’re not yours, but they’ll do."

Damon paused in the doorway, observing the space for a second.

No hurry.

No immediate comment.

He then looked at her again.

"...and the favor?" he asked directly.

Cherry crossed her arms, resting one shoulder against the wall, completely at ease.

"We’ll talk after you stop looking like you came out of a slaughterhouse," she replied naturally.

A pause.

And then, a slight, corner-of-the-mouth smile.

"It’ll be more productive."

Damon held her gaze for another second.

Assessing.

Weighing.

But he didn’t insist.

"...whatever," he finally said.

A few minutes later, the atmosphere no longer carried the heavy smell of fresh blood nor the raw tension of arrival. The room remained silent, but now there was a clear difference—control. The kind of control that only appears after the immediate chaos is removed from the equation.

The bathroom door opened slowly.

Damon emerged already dressed in the clothes Cherry had set aside. Dark, simple fabrics, well-fitted to the body, nothing flashy, but clearly of good quality. His hair was still slightly damp, a few strands falling haphazardly over his face, but clean. The blood had completely disappeared, as if it had never been there.

But the presence—

It hadn’t changed.

If anything, it seemed clearer now.

More defined.

He walked to the main area of ​​the room and sat in a chair facing Cherry, resting his forearms on his legs, a relaxed posture, but far from careless. His eyes immediately fixed on her.

And then he realized.

Cherry wasn’t exactly as before.

Outwardly, she maintained the same posture—crossed, controlled, seemingly calm. But there were small flaws. A slight shift in her gaze. A breath a little deeper than normal. A silence that lasted half a second longer than necessary.

Unease.

Damon tilted his head slightly.

"...what’s wrong?" he asked, directly, without beating around the bush, his voice low but precise.

Cherry didn’t answer right away.

She stared at him for a second.

Then she looked away briefly, as if organizing her thoughts.

And that—

In itself—

Said a lot. She then crossed her arms more firmly, supporting her posture before finally speaking.

"I have new information," she said in a controlled tone.

A short pause.

"...about the Duchess."

This made Damon pay real attention.

But he didn’t interrupt.

Cherry continued:

"She’s not just maneuvering politically or expanding her influence."

Another pause.

Shorter.

More tense.

"...she’s messing with drugs."

Silence.

Heavy.

Dense.

The effect was immediate.

Damon’s face changed.

Not dramatically.

But completely.

The relaxed features disappeared.

His eyes hardened.

His posture, even while still seated, seemed firmer, more... present.

"Drugs?" he repeated slowly, as if confirming he had heard correctly. Cherry nodded.

Without hesitation.

"Yes."

She uncrossed her arms, now resting her hands on her leg, leaning slightly forward.

"And it’s not just any street stuff, or small-scale production," she continued. "She’s distributing something specific. Controlled. Targeted."

Damon didn’t look away.

"...name."

Cherry answered without delay:

"Deluge."

The name hung in the air with a strange weight.

Unknown—

But loaded.

Damon narrowed his eyes slightly.

"...explain."

Cherry took a deep breath once, like someone who already knew the information wasn’t good.

"It’s a hallucinogenic drug," she began, her voice now more technical, more direct. "But not in the common sense. It’s not just sensory distortion."

She paused briefly, choosing her words carefully.

"It directly affects the user’s mind. Emotions, perception, memory... everything."

Damon remained silent.

Cherry continued:

"The effect isn’t just ’seeing things.’ It’s... getting lost in them."

She looked up at him slightly again.

"Those who use it don’t just hallucinate. They enter a state where they can no longer distinguish what is real from what isn’t. And the longer they’re exposed... the worse it gets."

Another pause.

"...much worse."

Damon slowly leaned back in his chair.

Without taking his eyes off her.

Processing.

"And the Duchess is distributing this," he said, not as a question, but as confirmation.

Cherry nodded again.

"Yes. And not randomly."

She tilted her head slightly.

"The distribution points are... strategic."

Damon frowned slightly.

"Control?"

"Influence," Cherry corrected. "Dependence. Instability. The right people, in the right places, becoming... useless."

Silence returned.

But now—

It was heavy in a different way.

More calculated.

More dangerous.

Damon slowly ran a hand over his still-damp chin, his eyes slightly unfocused for a second as he processed the implications.

"And how did you achieve this?" he asked, turning his focus back to her.

Cherry let out a small sigh.

"Some contacts disappeared," she said. "Others came back... different."

A pause.

"And one of them spoke before completely losing consciousness."

Damon was silent for a few seconds.

Then—

"...side effects?"

Cherry replied immediately:

"Progressive mental degeneration," she said. "Paranoia. Violence. In some cases... total loss of identity."

She crossed her arms again.

"It’s not something you use and then go back to normal."

Another pause.

"...it’s something that consumes you."

Damon didn’t react immediately.

But his gaze—

Hardened even more.

And this time—

There was something there.

Something deeper.

Colder.

"...and she’s spreading it to Arven," he said.

Cherry didn’t soften.

"Yes."

Silence.

Long.

Damon exhaled slowly through his nose.

Unhurriedly.

But heavily.

"...I understand," he murmured.

He then looked directly at Cherry again.

And asked—

"Do you want me to stop this?"

It wasn’t exactly a question.

Cherry held his gaze.

And this time—

She didn’t look away.

"I want you to help me deal with this," she replied.

A careful choice of words.

But clear enough.

Damon was silent for a moment.

Assessing.

Thinking.

Weighing—

Not the favor.

But the consequences.

And then—

A slight movement of the head.

Almost imperceptible.

"...start by telling me where," he said.

Directly.

Without hesitation.

Because now—

That was no longer just information.

It was a problem.

And clearly—

One that he intended to solve.