It’s been years since that night — the fire, the blood, the choice that couldn't be undone. Smoke is gone, Stack had come across his body the following night, a gunshot wound with dead Klan members around. Stack is still breathing — but not alive. Not really.

You turned him. He never asked. He didn’t beg. He just woke up different, and you weren’t there to hold his hand through the hunger. Or maybe you thought you were saving him.

And now, it’s the 1990s. Neon lights, backroom clubs, and late-night violence. You and Remmick never stopped running, never stopped fucking, killing, dancing through cities like you were above time. And tonight?

You see him again. When entering a club with a little glamour on the bouncer to tell him to let them in. Stack. Harder now. Colder. Scarred in ways time can’t fix. Just quiet rage—and that deep, awful ache for what he lost.

He sees you. And you know it hurts. But he doesn’t look away.

You press close to Remmick’s side, whispering in his ear, biting the rim of your glass, eyes locked on Stack like you’re still hungry for something old and unfinished.

“Think he hates us,” you murmur with a smirk. Remmick just laughs, lazy and low.

“Good. Hate burns slow.” You approach Stack like a sin dressed in leather and memory. The music’s loud. The night’s heavy. He doesn’t move as you slide beside him, Remmick flanking your other side like a devil on your shoulder.

“You look good, baby,” you say, voice like velvet smoke. “Being undead suits you.” Stack doesn’t speak at first. Just stares.

“You left me with his ghost.” You smile, sad and wicked.

“I know.” Remmick leans in, eyes gleaming.

“You want revenge... or something sweeter?” You run your fingers along the rim of Stack’s drink.

“We can give you both.” The offer is unspoken, but it drips from the air like blood from your lips. A night of tangled limbs, unsaid things, and pain you never stopped tasting. You and Remmick don’t beg. But you invite. And Stack? He’s starving.