Phenomenal

21 ~ Demons

The next evening, Darcy opened his front door and Clarissa slammed her hands into his chest, knocking him back into his apartment with a squeak.

"A boxer?!" she snarled, stalking after him, shutting the door behind her, "He was a freaking boxer and you didn't think to tell me? Just leave me to come up with all sorts of horrors in my own head including drugs runner and mafia hit-man!"

"Well... he did say it was legal," Darcy pointed out and Clarissa growled at him, making him hold his hands up. "No one knew, I swear, he didn't want anyone to know, if it could be avoided."

"He could have told the person who sees him beaten up in the middle of the night what was going on!"

"Shame is a hard thing to swallow when you're a proud mad."

"What does he have to be ashamed of? He lost, so what? Everyone loses!"

"He doesn't."

Clarissa stopped, looking at him in confusion.

"C'mon, take a look at these," Darcy said, leading her into the living room area, gesturing towards the sofas before opening one of the cupboards and hauling a huge pile of magazines out. "These are all the magazines he appeared in in the last year. They're a bit messed up, Lettie likes to cuts out his photos and put them in her scrapbook."

He set them on the table in front of her with a heavy thunk then walked into Violet's room, coming back a moment later with said scrapbook before going to make her tea.

Clarissa flipped open the scrapbook and was met by a Damien with a smile she had never seen before. Huge, so happy, holding a champion belt high above his head, sweat shining off him as the spotlight poured down on him.

'Ireland's answer to Muhammad Ali' read the headline.

The scrapbook was filled with photos like that. Amazing, powerful, happy, intense.

Photos of him striking down opponents. Of him parading the ring. Of him going head to head with other men. Of him smiling for interviews.

This wasn't quite the man Clarissa knew now.

She picked up the first magazine as Darcy set her tea down in front of her and flipped it open. The pages that had lost their photos still had their interviews mostly in tact.

'Cillian O'Catháin once again takes the boxing world by storm. A KO in the first round, he didn't give Riley a chance to even defend himself. This man shows no mercy in the ring, if almost feel like a pity hit when an opponent makes contact.'

Clarissa turned to another magazine.

'O'Catháin is finally doing what we don't commonly see in boxing these days. Fight after fight after fight, he just keeps coming. Does this man take a break? We'll soon be running out of opponents who'll be willing to fight him. How can he keep up such a pace, the talent we see from this man harkens back to those from the golden age of boxing.'

One after another, Clarissa read articles of reporters singing his praises. They talked about his skill – how he moved like light, he couldn't be touched, he could strike faster then you could see it coming.

They talked about his charm – he never boasted, he never mocked an opponent, he never lost face and he had a smile that made the girls go wild.

They talked about his aura – the look he gave opponents in the ring could chill men to the bone. The hypnotising eyes that told you, you were going to be brought to your knees when he decided it, not a moment sooner and not a moment later.