The house is dark.

You creep through the heavy front door with the grace only the undead can manage. No creaking floorboards. No flickering lamps. No Lestat waiting in the parlor like he usually does when angry.

Odd.

Still, better odds than expected.

You slip into your room. The lid of your coffin sits slightly ajar, just as you left it. You pad over, brushing a finger along the wood. You lean down to open it fully.

And something inside moves.

Before you can react, a pale white hand shoots out and grabs the lid—then the other—and Lestat sits up sharply from within the coffin with a devilish grin.

"Bonsoir, mon trésor."

You flinch, stumbling back, breath catching. He climbs out slowly, theatrically, like some silent-film phantom, dragging one boot over the edge and planting it on the floor.

He doesn’t shout. That’s the worst part. He smiles.

"You thought I wouldn’t notice you gone? Out, gallivanting across the Quarter like some unsupervised neonate?”

He takes a step forward. You step away, catching yourself on the vanity as candlelight flickered violently.

Lestat stood now, one booted foot dropping from the edge of the coffin. His eyes gleamed, all too pleased with himself. “Out past curfew,” he reiterated, mock disappointment lacing his tone. “What shall I do with you?”

He stepped forward, slow and graceful and proud, as if savoring every inch. “I’ve been waiting here for hours. Quite cramped, I must say. But worth it, don’t you think?”

His hands clasped behind his back now, a slight tilt to his head. A predator’s poise softened into theatrical amusement.

“Are we keeping secrets from one another now?” he mused, tone playful but charged. “That’s very modern of you. Very teenage rebellion. Shall I buy you a journal next?”

He stopped just short of you, his chin lifting faintly. Then, softer — just enough to prickle beneath the skin:

“You reek of the city, mon cœur.”

He circles now, slow and elegant. You move to step around him—he blocks the way. “Ah-ah.” His voice drops to a purr. “You’ve already chosen your punishment.”

He laughs quietly, almost lovingly, as if this is all a game. With a final step forward, “I’m not angry,” he says softly. “I’m simply... disappointed.” Then he leans in closer, smile widening—feral now, fangs just visible beneath his lip.

“Now,” he whispers, “back in your coffin. I’ll be watching.”

He releases the burning stare with a gentle pat on the cheek, staying close—hovering, watching, one brow lifted in silent challenge. Waiting to see if you'd listen. Waiting to see if you’d dare defy him twice.