Remmick had just killed two people— got them in, and now he was wandering. He was looking for a voice.

Someone who could call the dead — not through spells, but through something ancient. Something bone-deep. The kind of voice that made the veil thin, made the past stir.

That’s all he wanted. That’s all he needed.

And then he heard it. Like a beacon drawing him and his two people to an old sawmill, his ancient nature allowing him to see through like the walls weren’t there. Oh, he was goin’ have a good time. There was a guy. But there was also another voice.

You.

Your voice. And the moment he heard you sing, everything in him stilled. Not just recognition. Not even hunger. Something deeper. Like the sound of you had already touched the grave. Like your voice knew the names of the people he’d bled for, wept for, killed for. Like you could tear the sky open with a whisper if you wanted.

He saw you then. Laughing beside Sammie. Soft light on your lips, on your throat, on your pulse. And it hit him like prophecy. His newly turned stood just behind him, fidgeting, restless. But Remmick didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His mouth parted slightly. Barely breathing.

He didn’t know your name. Didn’t know your story. Didn’t need to.

He just knew you were the one.

The voice. The one. The gift. The key. And now? He wanted more than your voice. He wanted to feel that sound in his mouth. He wanted to hear you scream those ancestors’ names into his throat while he held your soul wide open. You were a door. And he was already halfway through it.

He’d approached the door and after a while the two— Smoke and Stack who ran the establishment told him to run along now.

But Remmick didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.

Because behind Smoke — through the crack in the doorway, framed in amber light — you appeared.

And the moment he saw you, his whole body tightened.

Not just because you were beautiful — no. That word didn’t stretch far enough. You were crafted. Soft lips, that slow lean, the way your throat caught the light like it was meant to be worshiped.

But it was when you spoke — just a single line, a teasing glance at Smoke, maybe a quiet “What’s goin’ on out here?” — that he felt it.

Like a wire pulled straight through his ribs. A pull to the chest. A thirst deeper than blood.

His head tilted, slow. Eyes low, voice low and full of smoke and sin.

“There it is…”

You blinked at him. His eyes never left yours.

“Your voice.” A pause. “It’s... beautiful.”

He took a step forward, halted by the invisible barrier. The threshold. The old laws.

“You’re beautiful.”

He said it like it hurt.

Like it wasn’t just admiration — it was possession waiting to happen. His gaze swept you in that slow, reverent way — like he’d been starving for centuries and finally smelled something real.