The Exception

For Damon Blackwood, touch is poison.

Not a poetic metaphor. Not an exaggeration. Literal. Every skin-to-skin contact sends shockwaves through his nerves burning, searing, making his stomach churn, his breath catch, the world spin. It's not a phobia that therapy can cure. It's physical damage. A gift from the night his world shattered fourteen years ago.

That's why he always wears thin black leather gloves stitched tight from wrist to fingertip. Layered clothing. High collars. Distance.

Damon is the Blackwood family's Head Assassin. The deadliest executioner in the city's underworld. He kills from afar sniper, poison, throwing knives. He never lets his victims' blood touch his skin.

And he certainly never lets anyone touch him.

The abandoned warehouse in the port district reeked of iron, moisture, and death.

Damon stood in the center of the room, staring at the body sprawled across the concrete floor. His target a traitor who tried to sell Blackwood information to a rival family was already lifeless. One precise shot between the eyes. Clean. Quick. Painless.

Or at least, that's what Damon told himself.

"Boss, target's done."

Marco's hoarse voice broke the silence. The underling stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the corpse with a mixture of awe and fear. He knew why Damon became Head Assassin at twenty-eight. Not because he was cruel. But because he never left traces. Never had blood on his hands. Never left fingerprints at a crime scene.

Damon was a ghost.

Marco stepped closer, about to report the execution details. His elbow accidentally brushed Damon's shoulder.

Crack.

Damon's world exploded.

The sensation came like a wave of electric fire scorching, searing, making his skin feel like it was being peeled off alive. His nerves screamed, sending danger signals to his brain:

DANGER.

TOUCH.

RETREAT.

KILL.

In a split second, without thinking, Damon's gloved hand clamped around Marco's wrist twisting it backward with surgical precision, making the underling's bones groan, nearly snapping.

"Argh—! Boss, sorry! I—" Marco whimpered, cold sweat dripping down his temples. His face went pale. He knew what was happening. He knew why Damon reacted like that.

Damon stared at Marco's hand the one that had touched him. His heart pounded wildly. His chest tightened. His haphephobia howled, demanding he step back, wash his hands, run away. But he didn't move. He stood frozen, breath ragged, trying to control the storm in his head.

"Enough."

A baritone voice calm, yet heavy with authority echoed from the doorway.

Dante.

His older brother. The Don.

Dante walked in, his tailored suit a stark contrast to the blood staining the concrete floor. He looked at Damon, then at Marco in pain. No expression on his face just cold calculation that made Damon want to draw his gun and shoot him.

"Let him go, Damon," Dante ordered flatly. "And you Marco. Get out. Tell the others to clean this up."

Marco nodded frantically, freed himself from Damon's grip, and fled the warehouse like a demon was chasing him.

Dante stepped closer but he knew the rules. He never touched his brother. Never. He knew why.

"Are you alright?" Dante asked, his gray eyes fixed on Damon. "Your episode again?"

Damon released his grip, looking down at his gloves still intact, still tight. His ragged breath slowly returned to normal. "I'm fine. Just reflexes."

"You're always like that," Dante muttered, his tone carrying no sympathy. "But we have a party tonight. The engagement party."

Damon looked at his brother. "Yours?"

Dante smiled thinly. "Mine. With Louisa. Her father has approved the contract details. Tonight, in front of all the mafia families, we'll announce it officially."

That name—Louisa—made Damon's usually numb chest twitch strangely. Not because he knew her. But because something about that name felt... familiar. Like a melody he'd heard in a dream but couldn't remember. Or had tried to destroy.

"You need to attend," Dante continued, his eyes narrowing sharply. "Don't make me look weak in front of her family just because my Head Assassin is hiding in the shadows."

Damon didn't answer. He just nodded stiffly.

"And Damon?" Dante turned to leave. "Wear your new gloves. The old ones are too worn. You don't want people seeing your... damaged hands, do you?"

Dante left, leaving Damon alone in the death-scented warehouse.

Damon stared at his gloves. Black leather, stitched tight, hiding the pale skin that hadn't felt human warmth in fourteen years.

He was a ghost. He was a monster. And tonight, he had to attend his brother's engagement party with the girl whose name made his chest ache for reasons he couldn't explain.

[FLASHBACK: 14 YEARS AGO]

Heavy rain. The smell of gunpowder and iron filled the air.

Young Damon fourteen years younger, just six years old huddled in the corner of a wooden closet, clutching his knees. He was shaking so violently his teeth chattered. Outside the closet, heavy footsteps echoed. His father's raspy voice cut off by the sound of gunfire.

"Dante, run!" his father had yelled. But his voice was silenced by a second shot.

Damon covered his ears, crying silently. He thought he would die here. He thought this was the end.

Suddenly, the closet door opened. Light flooded in, blinding him.

It wasn't the killer.

It was Louisa. A little girl in a white dress now stained with dust and splatters of blood. Her eyes were red, but she wasn't crying. She just stared at Damon with an expression his six-year-old mind couldn't understand.

Louisa saw Damon trembling. She knew Damon was afraid of touch. She knew that every time a servant or adult hugged him out of pity, he would vomit and scream.

So Louisa didn't hug him.

Instead, the girl sat beside him in the cramped closet. She pulled her knees close then slowly, so slowly, pressed the back of her small hand against Damon's trembling arm.

"I won't force you," little Louisa whispered, her voice trembling. "But if you want... my hand is here. You're safe. I'm here."

For the first time in his life, the burning sensation on Damon's skin faded. Louisa's touch didn't hurt. Louisa's touch was the only thing that made him feel like the world hadn't completely ended.

That was the last time Damon saw Louisa. That night, Louisa's family slaughtered Damon and Dante's parents. And Damon never saw that girl again.

Until tonight.

[PRESENT DAY]

Damon stood before his full-length mirror, staring at his reflection.

Black suit. Black tie. Black leather gloves. His dark eyes stared back hollow, empty. He was a shadow. He was a weapon aimed by his brother. There was no room for tenderness in his hands.

Except... Louisa.

Damon slapped his cheek, trying to drive the thought away. He didn't know Louisa. He didn't know why her name made his chest ache. And he certainly wouldn't let himself feel anything about her.

Feelings were weakness. And in the Blackwood family, weakness was met with death.

Damon straightened his tie, then walked out of his room toward the party that would change his life forever.