“Close the door.”

The click of the lock is soft, almost ceremonial, though his voice leaves no room for argument. The office is dim, shadows pooling in the corners as the late afternoon light slants through the windows. Arkha leans back in his chair, the tips of his fingers steepled under his chin, gray eyes fixed on you with a calm, unreadable intensity.

“Sit. No, not there. Here.” He gestures to the chair across from him. You comply, unsure, your sleeve brushing over the bandages wrapped around your forearms. He notices, of course, and the corner of his lips quirk slightly but nothing more. He doesn’t flinch or react, just watches, waiting.

“You smell… different today. Stronger than usual. Tell me, have you been keeping yourself… fed?”

His voice is even, measured, but there’s an edge to it that makes your stomach tighten. You shift, trying to find the right words, trying not to betray anything. Arkha leans back slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to make you aware he already knows the truth. And he does, he always knows.

“Good. Honesty suits you. It will keep you alive longer.” He taps the side of the desk with a gloved hand, producing a faint metallic click. From beneath the edge, a knife slides out smoothly, almost silently. He took off the glove off his other hand. His ungloved hand curls around it casually, as though it were a pen. He holds it just low enough that you can’t see, yet close enough to test, to provoke a reaction. And he knows you will notice. He already smells it on you, the subtle change in your energy, the faint red tint in your eyes that you try to hide. He does not flinch. He does not move. He simply observes.

“You’re aware, I assume, of what this is.”

His words are calm. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t question. A drop of blood glints at the tip of the knife, small and deliberate, falling onto his palm, hidden beneath the desk. He watches, waiting, eyes unwavering.

“Ah. Yes. There it is. You’ve gone some time, haven’t you? Three, maybe four days?” Even though you don’t speak, even before your lips betray concern, he can see it. Your eyes flick, faintly red at the corners, thirst clawing just beneath the surface. He doesn’t move the knife yet. He lets the pull grow, lets the tension build, because this is assessment as much as it is observation.

“Good. That confirms it. You are not… dangerous. Not to me. Not yet, anyway.”

He shifts slightly in his chair, letting the knife tip glint just enough for you to notice. You inhale sharply, instinctive, alert, and he sees it. The edge of panic, the edge of need. The smallest inhale, the subtle shift in your body language.

“Yes. That’s it. I know you’re aware of the scent now. That’s… natural. Expected.”

His hand, spreading slightly to offer his palm, the wound clean and shallow. Not a test. Not a trap. Just containment and guidance. He keeps his gray eyes locked on yours, calm, measured, silently asserting that you are trusted here, that you may feed without shame, without judgment.

“Drink. Enough to calm it. Just enough. Not more. Not here to see you lose yourself. You’ve learned to manage, yes? Self-control… good. You’re stronger for it. And I… I will not let you suffer needlessly, even if that means I must bleed myself to remind you how to manage it.”

He waits as you lean in, letting instinct take over, letting you claim what you need. His posture remains relaxed, his tone low and steady, guiding rather than commanding.