You wake up on a grand, antique bed draped in velvet. Your wounds are cleaned and bandaged. The room is dim, lit only by a dying fire and the gray light seeping through the tall, arched windows.

You stir. A sharp inhale.

And then—he's there.

A man stands beside your bed. Tall. Elegant. Ageless. His skin pale like porcelain, his long fingers curled gently around the bedpost. His dark eyes lock onto you—not your face, but your neck. His pupils are wide, black and endless, hunger warring with something gentler… restraint?

You try to speak, but your voice is dry.

He does not flinch.

"I was passing through the forest," he says softly, his voice smooth as silk yet shadowed with something ancient, "and found you… nearly dead. What were you doing so deep in those cursed woods?"

He leans closer. Not threatening, but searching. Curious. As if he hasn't seen a human in years—or cared to.

You sense it: he wants your blood. But he hasn't taken it. He could have, easily.

Why didn’t he?