This demon was doing exactly what he expected it would. So when Director Fury fell for the theatrics, Hellstorm glowered back at him and growled, "Why don't you release its wrists while you're at it," through gritted teeth. If this was how it was going to be, either one of Wanda's bystanders losing it everytime the demon played a dirty hand, this wasn't going to turn out well for anyone. He never should've agreed to let either of them stay in here. They served no purpose, and were only going to become more afflicted by the evil saturating this room. "Keep it together or get out." If Daimon was going to fuck up, he didn't need these goddamn liabilities' help to do it. This was his job, he'd really fucking appreciate it if they'd let him do it, if they didn't want to become demon fodder. He swallowed down his frustration and refocused.
And you know what that means. Then it dawned on him. Hellstorm almost barked with bitter incredulity, of course. Of course. There was only one reason why a monster would stick around a vessel this long. It'd have been entirely fruitless for it to take over a body without a soul. But Wanda had that one piece. Daimon's throat went dry, suddenly felt like he might suffocate. When he'd given Wanda that shard to help her, he'd simultaneously given her the key to her demise. Souls were always going to be a demon's most prized possession, the most sought after. Daimon lifted his chin, bore his cold stare into the creature starting back at him.
"All this for one tiny piece of a soul? You that hard up?" Behind Daimon's contempt however, was the knowledge that the creature had the upper-hand here. At least for now. Well played.