Damien very much doubted she\'d bother him too much; after the entire apartment was hers for the use, and the thought of that scared him somewhat. Casting one more edgy look over at her from the doorway, Damien crossed the room to the blocked up window. Tearing apart the make-shift barrier of black towels, half a blanket and duct tape, Damien squinted against the dark blue sky outside.
Sunrise was probably the worst and most depressing part of the twenty-four hour day span. The black skies faded blue like washed-out jeans, and the stars died out slowly, one by one. Cars began racing faster around on the roads, like they all had somewhere to go, beeping and stopping more furiously; now there was a rush to get somewhere. Worst yet, there was the tinting of the eastern skies; navy blue faded to purple, to pink, to orange, then yellow, then the whole sky illuminated and the vampire had to go down. But as of right now, it was just turning purple. There was at most fifteen minutes left to watch the sun rise and paint the sky with the colors of the day.
He wanted to open the window and feel the breeze, but he knew it wasn\'t smart to do with everything that was stuck there. The vampire sighed instead, recognizing that he hadn\'t seen the sun in so many years.
Slowly Damien left the window, removing his shirt which reeked of salt and sand. He threw a glance towards the open door, making sure she wasn\'t standing there as he dropped his shirt in the hamper.
Playing all along the muscles and pale skin were tens of scars from his former life. Along his back were silvery slashes long since faded, made by a whip held by his father back when he was a boy. Five of them. For stealing. Still more were the deep gashes made by men\'s swords and maces in the years of his adolescence. Two of them which almost killed him. Still more scratches made by immortal talons during nights of passion and hatred, deeper then the whips, but nothing worth getting too upset about. Fifteen, twenty, he forgot how many, short and blunt. Bite marks, deep punctures in his shoulder blades, his wrists, the base of his neck. Everywhere. It wasn\'t something he exactly wanted anyone to see.
As he reached into a drawer for another shirt, he heard a faint scratching, tapping and rubbing at the outside wall, something he would have missed had he not been as old as he was. With the shirt in hand, he walked through the door to see the Akari pressing herself against an odd drawing obviously fabricated by her own hand. "Storm! What the hell are you doing!?"
