In the aftermath (Demonica, Stefan private)

Fighting Ibiki, she had put her life, her ideals, her hope, her future, and her pride all on the line. She had given every ounce of her being, wrung every iota of power out of her body, she had overdrafted and used every iota of willpower, every bit of her strength. However, all it had got her was this battered body, broken and bruised, torn and defeated. After that battle, she had gone to the one place in this world that had felt like her home, driven by willpower, spurred on by raw instinct.

It had brought her to a familiar building in Qatar. BANG the door was opened rather ungracefully, colliding with the wall beside it was a gasping, broken figure leaned against its surface for support. Blood ran like rivers from the cuts that adorned her face, it soaked her neck, dripping in spatters on the floor. Her breathing was heaving-the undulations of her chest labored, showing the level of exhaustion that Demonica truly felt.

Hands, slick red with blood clung to the corner of the door as their owner tried to steady the pants that came forcefully from her lips. However what was worse than the pain, was the look in this girls eyes. Demonica was prideful, a disastrous force of nature; she was a stalwart being of tremendous willpower. Those eyes were empty, dull like a being who had faced something far worse than a simple beating. It was the look of someone who had lost when their most important thing was on the line.

"..Why did I come here? Of all the places, why here?", Demonica's thoughts were muddled as her vision was obscured by blood.

She was unable to take even the first step as she leaned against the entryway, blood dripping from the corners of her lips, her broken arm trembling as she used it for balance. Knowing this man, the ruckus would be enough to pique his interest. After all, he wasn't one to allow such a rude entrance into his domain.

She wasn't thinking of that though, Demonica was simply thinking of breathing as she thought to herself in a self-mocking mannerism.

"He's the last person, who I'd ever want to know I my failure. The fact that his trust was mistakenly placed in me, how laughable."

Her little inner monologue was brought to an end as she coughed up another puddle of crimson across the entryway, staining the floor beneath her.

More than the pain was the crushing sense of defeat. The fact that she had failed so blatantly, she couldn't even protect the place that she had found for herself. She couldn't even die when she failed, instead she ended up like this. Disgraced. As her legs trembled faintly, she couldn't help but think about it. Think about how this was the only place in the world that hadn't judged her, how in these halls she had been equal to anyone else. They hadn't called her monster, they hadn't run from her in fear, they hadn't judged her by her past.

They had trusted her, had relied on her. What had she done for them? She had failed them, failed the faith placed in her, failed to deliver when it counted most. She had this horrid emptiness inside, this dull sense of loss than ate away and left this shell of a woman in its wake.

"...I truly am not as strong as I thought I was." Demonica thought in a dull manner as she could soon feel her legs begin to go. Thinking became hard to do, it was everything she could to simply stand and breathe. By this point, there would be a good sized puddle beneath the demon, blood already soaking the tattered clothes that she wore. She began to count breaths, a countdown to the moment her legs would inevitably fail her, as she had failed everyone else.