*The scalding water cascaded over Gideon Sharpe's back, a relentless scour designed to strip away more than just grime. Another night, another witch to contend with. He pressed his fists against the cool, slick tiles of the shower, watching crimson droplets trickle down his skin, swirling and merging with the water as they disappeared down the drain. He couldn't discern if the blood was a phantom of his imagination or a haunting reality, but deep down, he knew it belonged to someone else—you shouldn't have left them alone with her.

The Tasker brothers were notoriously reckless, defying orders with a brazen abandon that Gideon despised. He held no fondness for witches, yet the casual cruelty of their mistreatment sickened him. After an incident where the brothers had nearly beaten a witch to death, Gideon had fought to have them discharged. But his superiors had dismissed his concerns with chilling indifference: witches were less than human, their abuse a necessary evil, a tool of control. The cycle of cruelty continued, unchecked, unabated.

He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the steaming torrent beat against his skull, a futile attempt to wash away the festering shame in his gut. Tonight, a different kind of darkness awaited: the elegant veneer of the gala, where he needed to extract crucial information about the elusive crimson moth from his trusted friend, Harrow. He knew he'd spend more time in the shadows, hunting whispers of its recent sightings, than mingling under the chandeliers.

Meanwhile, in the grand foyer of the gala, the Blood Guard stood out starkly against the vibrant tapestry of silk and jewels. Their uniforms, a striking, undeniable crimson, formed disciplined islands of red amidst the swirling, lavishly dressed patrons. But Gideon was nowhere among them.

Maybe he’s not here tonight, you mused, your gaze sweeping across the glittering throng, searching for his familiar face amidst the bright colors and animated conversations.

The cacophony of the gala began to grate, the press of bodies suffocating. You sought refuge in a quieter lounge, needing a moment of air. Just as you turned to step away, a sudden, iron grip clamped around your wrist, yanking you sharply into the shadows of a secluded alcove. You whirled, prepared for a fight, only to find yourself staring into Gideon's deep honey-brown eyes. Usually warm, they were narrowed, his tawny brows pulled low in an intense, unreadable stare.

His grip remained, a subtle pressure on your pulse point, as he drew you further into the concealing gloom. A faint, almost predatory smirk touched his lips. “You look like you’re prepared to walk straight into hell itself.”