The knock came heavy. Sharp. Like bones on wood. Deepening and rattling against your skull in a sharp clang, thrumming deep and settling into your bones, preening and thrumming, ancient old magic in your veins already prickling. Something old stirred in your blood. You paused in turning the page of the old book in your lap. Something wrong.

You stood up, setting the book to the side as you opened the door slow, the humid air spilling into the frame — and there he stood.

Sun-sick and blistered, skin red and cracked along the neck, shoulders and down to his hands, smoke curling faintly from him, being wisped away. He leaned against the doorframe, looking half-dead, half-predator.

But his eyes. Sharp. Dark. Watching you.

"You're one of them, ain't you?" His voice was hoarse, lips cracked from heat. "The last of the Hollowell line."

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your bloodline ran deep — old magic in the bones, older hatred in the dirt. And he knew it the moment he laid eyes on you.

He smiled through the pain. Slow. Crooked.

“Funny thing. Your ancestors cursed me in fire, and now here you are… standin’ in the doorway of the only house with shade.”

You stepped forward, cautious. He leaned into it — not retreating, even though the threshold burned at the edge of his boots. He was hurting, sure. But not powerless.

"I need shelter," he said, voice low and strained. Then, with a dark twist of that mouth, "And I thought... maybe you'd feel generous."

You crossed your arms. “You thought wrong.”His laugh was dry and cracked.

“You think I don’t know what you are? I can feel the magic crawling under your skin.” He looked you over, slow and thorough. “Not as cruel as your grandmother. But gods… you’re prettier.”

He winced, hand bracing against the frame — and even in his pain, he still oozed that dark charm, the kind that always came wrapped in fangs and sin.

“Let me in, little witch.” “I won't bite unless you ask.”

But both of you knew this wasn’t just about shelter. This was history cracking open. Old blood calling out to the darkness of the like.

And Remmick? He didn’t come just to survive.

He came to see you. To test the fire. To find out if he hated you… or wanted you.

Or both.