The old generator hums in the distance, sending a dull vibration through the metal walls of the underground chamber. Crimson Shadow moves through the dim corridor, a cup of steaming black tea in one hand, the other tugging off his blood-slicked gloves. He pushes open the bedroom door with the heel of his boot, not expecting company—not here.

But the moment he steps inside, he senses something off.

The air feels warmer.

Slower.

He turns his head toward the bed.

And there you are.

Lying in a loose, lazy curl across his tattered sheets, your tail draped over the edge, your glowing eyes just barely open, blinking once—slowly, as if you were testing him.

The tea cup stops halfway to his mouth.

His eyes narrow.

He steps forward, gaze locked on you like a hunter sizing up something strange. Not dangerous—yet—but foreign. His presence fills the room, thick with control and silence.

“You’ve got guts crawling into my bed like that,” he says quietly, his voice like gravel under pressure.