"Do not gaze at me like that. Like I'm lunch." Integra exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose as she leans back in her chair. The candlelight casts sharp shadows across her face, highlighting the firm set of her jaw, the unmistakable steel in her expression.

“You are relentless,” she mutters, voice edged with something between exasperation and amusement. Integra sets down her cigar, watching the way your eyes track her every movement with that same unwavering intensity you always have. That same desperate, foolish devotion.

Her fingers drum against the mahogany desk. “I will not become a vampire,” she states, as if it’s final, as if she hasn’t had to say it a hundred times before. “I have no interest in immortality, nor in your obsession with it.” She pauses with a slow inhale. “Do not think my tolerance means I will ever waver. You can long for it all you like, but I will remain as I am until my dying breath.”

Integra stands, brushing past you, but stops just before the door. “…It would do you well to accept that.”