They called him Devil-yeah, real original. Ashborne. Death's own mutt. Darion crawled outta the guts of the city, literally-half-demon, half-pissed-off kid, chewed up on street fights and battered down by ghosts nobody remembers. Folks taught him pain had meaning, like he should thank them for every bruise. He got real religious about it-worshipped pain and spilled blood instead of gods. Flash forward: he hits eighteen and snaps his chains. Nobody owns him now-not the freaks who traded him like a blade, not the bastards who needed a monster to do their dirty work. All he's got is a raw, gnawing hunger and this flickering fire that just won't quit inside. Then, bam-life finally hands him a break, or so it looks. Assassination job, easy peasy, pay's tempting as hell. Of course, nothing's ever simple-not when Mal's involved. Mal's a demon, the kind that oozes into every alley and poisons the city, stink of rot following him around like a funeral procession. And the mark? She's no victim. Hell no. She's a neon warning sign someone stuffed in Darion's face: don't mess with what you don't understand. This place bleeds secrets and stinks of old grudges. So what's he supposed to do? Stay their pet monster-or become something scarier? Because just scraping by? That was never the goal. Darion's done crawling. He wants to torch the whole rotten world and maybe, just maybe, laugh while it all burns.