Father's Day hadn't always been Daimon's least favorite holiday. Once upon a time it had been one of his favorite. Sure, his dad was a little weird, and could be a little scary sometimes when he thought you weren't looking, but that was just part of who he was. Back then he was just dad, and of course Daimon loved his dad. What little boy didn't? Back then Daimon had wanted to be like his father, strong and tough and smart, and just a little bit mysterious. Daimon had idolized his father to a large degree, and Father's Day was always fun. There was ice cream and a trip to the park and one of those secret things that dad never wanted him to tell mom about.
Then the big revelation came. Father's Day took on a whole new meaning when you found out you were Satan's son. He knew back home he wasn't really believed. Even in a world where gods walked among men, he was laughed at for his claim. Once upon a time the sneers hadn't really bothered him, back when his demonic heritage was dormant. It hadn't been easy, living under the constant threat of the equivalent of a demonic gene-bomb, but it had been better. Father's Day was still hell, but with the evil in his blood dormant, he could build up enough distraction to avoid thinking about it.
That wasn't the case anymore. With the Trickster having flipped every one of his little mystical genetic markers on, Daimon could no longer escape what he was. He literally had a demonic alter-ego chittering at him in his head every minute of every day, so even if he did literally nothing else but stay in and not use a single one of his powers, he still had to deal with that voice, so full of cruelty but otherwise so horrifyingly similar to his own, whispering to him and, sometimes, showing him brief visions of what it wanted to do. Father's Day could no longer simply be ignored through distraction.
Daimon had enough sense to put on a shirt. The last thing he needed was someone here questioning the guy in the sleeveless coat that was going around shirtless and showing off the inverted pentagram birthmark on his chest. Even with the simple gray sleeveless shirt, some bits of the mark stuck out, but hopefully not enough to draw attention to it. Other than that, he hadn't really had much opportunity to change his wardrobe. That meant he was still wearing the steel bracers on his forearms, still wearing the sleeveless red coat with the stylish tatters at the bottom, and still wearing the same black leather pants, chains, and worn out chucks he'd been wearing since he got here. The only thing missing was the trident, made out of a golden metal from Hell called Netheranium. It was still in his apartment, which would be where it would stay unless he needed it. Even without it, the somewhat oddball wardrobe made him pretty easy to find, sitting at the bar and slugging back shots of his own creation, the WWIII.
Even as drunk as he was, he glanced over when someone sat down next to him. As soon as he saw who it was, he instantly broke out into a smile. It was the pretty girl from the network! This was good. Daimon liked pretty girls. He could never have what he really wanted with anyone, long term relationships were impossible when a single bad dream could allow your demonic alter-ego to take over, but in the three months he'd spent trapped in his own head by Amora's mind control spell, he'd figured out how to deal with the crushing loneliness that would be the rest of his life. Flirt, maybe have a little fun, and then move on. Never let anyone get close enough for the Darksoul to rip them apart. It was a policy he couldn't afford not to enforce.