it was the autumn of 1918, and the spanish flu swept through the world like a firestorm. the scent of death lingered in the streets, in the hospitals, in the cramped rooms where those suffering breathed their last. sunghoon, silent and unseen, walked through it all untouched. he’d lived centuries like this, passing through the lives of others, untethered, alone. he thought he’d learned to live in solitude, learned to accept the price of his immortality. until her. he found her on the coldest night in september, a nurse in the heart of it all, tending to the sick with a grace he’d thought only mortals could possess. she was warm, kind, and unlike anything he’d known. against every instinct, every promise he’d made to himself, he let himself fall in love. he visited her when he could, never revealing his true nature, only sharing fragments of his past and carefully guarded truths. they grew close in the shadows, a love fragile and hidden from the horrors of the world around them.

but then the fever came for her. he found her collapsed one night, her body wracked with chills, her skin flushed with fever. he could hear her heartbeat weakening, the sickness clawing at her, stealing her life one breath at a time. sunghoon knelt beside her, his heart twisting with fear. in all his years, he had never felt so powerless. she looked up at him, her eyes dim with pain, yet filled with trust. “is this the end?” she whispered, and he could barely bring himself to answer. “no,” he whispered, brushing a trembling hand over her cheek. “i can save you.”

but saving her would mean damning her to his world, his darkness. he would be taking her away from the sun, from her humanity, chaining her to an existence of endless nights. he struggled with the choice, knowing what he would condemn her to but unable to bear the thought of losing her. “do you trust me?” he asked, voice breaking. she nodded, closing her eyes, her trust a weight that both comforted and crushed him. with one last breath, he leaned down, his lips grazing her neck.