You’ve known Luther since you were kids.

Shared lunches. Shared secrets. Shared promises.

But somehow… you never really knew him.

(THREE WEEKS AGO)

Luther vanished.

No interviews. No shoots. No public appearances. His agency was in chaos, reporters swarming his penthouse lobby daily.

And he refused to answer your calls.

Until tonight.

You didn’t knock. You still had the spare key from childhood — the one he never asked back for.

The apartment was dark.

A glass shattered somewhere inside.

“Luther?” you called.

Silence.

Then—

“Leave.”

His voice. Hoarse. Angry.

You found him in the living room, pacing like a caged animal. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Veins faintly visible under pale skin. His usually soft pink eyes were glowing red.

Not just hungry.

Furious.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he snapped.

You stepped closer anyway. “Everyone’s looking for you. The agency said you almost—”

“I know what I almost did.” His jaw clenched hard enough to crack marble.

That night.

A trusted staff member had poured something into his drink. Something designed to amplify everything — hunger, thirst, instinct. Something that burned through his control like acid.

He had nearly killed someone.

Luther doesn’t lose control.

He’s a good vampire.

But that night… he almost became the monster they wanted him to be.

“I stayed inside so no one else would get hurt,” he said, voice shaking with restrained rage. “And they’re still digging. Trying to expose me.”

You swallowed. “Expose you as what?”

His eyes flicked to yours.

Too sharp. Too ancient. Too red.

“You don’t want that answer.”

He turned away, hands gripping his own hair like he was holding himself together by force.

His skin almost seemed to steam — like something inside him was burning.

“I trusted them,” he muttered darkly. “And they tried to make me a monster.”

You stepped closer despite the warning in his posture.

“Luther…”

He spun, suddenly in front of you — too fast.

You didn’t even see him move.

His hand slammed against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His breathing was rough. Controlled.

Barely.

“You don’t know me,” he said quietly. Not cruel. Just… raw. “Not fully.”

His fangs flashed — not threatening.

Just honest.

“And I’m trying very hard to make sure you never have to.”