The black SUV parked quietly at the corner of the road, near a middle-class neighborhood that looked and felt deceptively peaceful.

Damain stared at a particular apartment complex through the safety of his tinted glasses. He lowered his gaze to the picture in his hand and nodded in confirmation after matching it perfectly.

Beside the apartment stood a small bar, conveniently located next to the building, a detail Clara had pointed out as one of Ethan’s regular haunts. It had only become public knowledge after Councilman Delaney’s case exploded into the spotlight. With Ethan now tied to Elena’s death through the intimidation allegations, the public had shown him no mercy. People followed him, took pictures, and posted them online, making it easy to map out his routine.

From what Clara had gathered, it was clear the man had begun drinking heavily since the case began, especially after being cut off from Delaney’s team for the very problem he had created.

"Having a bar next to your home is actually very convenient. You can drink yourself to stupor and still be certain you’ll make it back safely," Damain remarked, casually scrolling through images of Ethan slumped over, drunk and vomiting in front of his own apartment.

Loth sat still in the driver’s seat, unsure how to respond to Damain’s quiet monologue. The man had been sitting in the back for nearly thirty minutes, calmly plotting something dark, and it left the atmosphere inside the car heavy and awkward.

She wanted to ask if they were waiting for someone, or if he simply found comfort in observing people while weaving schemes around their lives but she was afraid she would piss of her Lord who has begun warming up to her.

Damain, however, was completely unaware of her thoughts. His attention had already shifted to the stream of information unfolding on his screen.

Ethan Mercer came from a modest background on Chicago’s South Side. He built his career through political volunteering, slowly climbing the ranks by proving himself useful in high-pressure situations. He was not charismatic, but he was efficient, discreet, and fiercely loyal to whoever he served. It explained everything. The lengths he had gone for Delaney were not out of malice, but ambition. He had wanted recognition, perhaps even a promotion.

He graduated with a degree in Political Science and Public Administration, then spent years working behind the scenes in local campaigns. He specialized in logistics, donor coordination, and "problem-solving," which often meant handling situations others preferred not to touch.

Damain tapped another link, opening a page filled with clips and recordings of Ethan from past events and internal footage.

Every video told the same story.

The same flaw.

Ass licking.

The need for approval was written into every word, every gesture. The man wanted recognition so badly it bled through every moment he spoke.

"Yep... Now I’m certain. He will make a perfect fall guy," Damain murmured, his gaze lifting to settle on a third-floor apartment that supposedly belonged to Ethan.

The real question was how.

Barely two seconds later, an idea surfaced, sharp and sudden, causing his eyes to widen ever so slightly.

He leaned back into his seat, rubbing his chin slowly as his gaze darkened again, this time carrying a colder, more deliberate edge.

He looked back at the apartment, but now there was something else in his eyes.

Sympathy.

What he was about to do was cruel, even by his own standards, but it was necessary.

The problem with Delaney’s case was simple. As long as Elena’s death remained unresolved, Delaney would forever stand as a shadowed suspect. Doubt alone was enough to destroy him.

Ethan needed to step forward and take responsibility for Elena’s death. Only then would the weight of public anger shift completely onto him.

But it had to be voluntary.

Anything forced would be dismissed as coercion.

That was the challenge.

This would not be a battle of strength. It would be psychological warfare and Damain had three weeks at most to break him.

"Alright. Let’s go back home. I need to change before I head to work," Damain finally said, tearing his gaze away from the building. The hesitation in his expression had vanished, replaced by cold resolve.

His future hinged on this case.

Ethan was simply unfortunate enough to stand in its path.

"Yes, my Lord," Loth replied, nodding as she pressed down on the pedal.

The black SUV eased out of the corner and merged into the road, disappearing swiftly at the first turn.

Ding!

Damain glanced at his phone and saw four new messages waiting for him. One from Twenty, and three from his wives.

Twenty: "Old church purchased, renovation beginning tonight." (Thumbs up)

Damain nodded in satisfaction as he scrolled through the images of the building documents attached to the message. He responded with a simple thumbs up before shifting his attention to the others.

All three messages from his wives were identical.

"Babe, we got the new house," Damain read aloud under his breath.

He checked each number again, hoping he had misunderstood, but the message remained the same across all three.

A cold weight settled in his stomach as a wave of dread washed over him.

What new house? 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

With which money?

His eyes flickered as memories rushed back to him. The conversation. The plan. The need for a secluded location where he could torture demons and create cursed tools.

He needed a place of torture, not a home.

"Park this car first..." Damain said, his voice strained as his vision blurred slightly. His fingers moved quickly across the screen as he messaged Hazel.

Damain: House? Where are you guys?

Hazel: California (heart emoji)

Damian: Carli-what?!!!!

The words nearly left his mouth as a shout. What the hell was going on?

Why would they go that far?

Hazel: We also got a vehicle.

Damain’s brows furrowed as another message appeared.

Damian: I know I saw the cars...

Hazel: Not a car, a vehicle.

Damain’s heart skipped a beat.

They spent more?

And what exactly did she mean by not a car, but a vehicle?

On a perfectly normal Tuesday morning, his wives had somehow managed to drive him insane.