Daemon
I finished my story. My friends said nothing, and somehow, their silence weighed heavier than any verdict.
Ragnar stared blankly at the centre of the table, his chin resting on his interlaced fingers. Seymour sat across from him, frowning as though he was desperately searching my story for even one circumstance that might excuse me. Judging by his expression, the search had come up empty-handed.
“Daemon,” Seymour finally broke the silence, “I really, really want to hit you.”
“So do I,” the mentor said.
I nodded in understanding.
“Do you even realise… I mean, this is…” Seymour threw his hands up in exasperation, struggling to find the right word. “You are…”
“An arsehole," Ragnar supplied helpfully.
Familiar verdict. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it before.
I let out a heavy sig
