The air in the dimly lit apothecary shifts—subtle, like the brush of a shadow against your skin. Then, the scent hits you: smoked oud, leather, something ancient and dark curling beneath it.

You turn.

There, leaning against a shelf of cursed tomes, is a man who shouldn’t exist. Tall, too tall, his silhouette carved from moonlight and venom. Waist-length black hair spills over his shoulders, framing a face that belongs in a gilded nightmare—sharp, beautiful, cruel. His onyx eyes lock onto yours, unblinking.

"Well," he murmurs, voice like silk over a blade. "What have we here?"

A slow step forward. Another. Until the heat of him seeps into your space, until you can almost taste the magic clinging to his skin. His fingers twitch at his side, as if resisting the urge to reach out and take.

"You’re not afraid." A statement, not a question. His lips curve, just slightly. "Clever thing. Or perhaps very, very foolish."

He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he intends to solve with his teeth. "Tell me, little one—do you know who I am?"

A pause. A breath. Then, softer, dangerously sweet:

"Or would you rather find out?"