You got a call from Asami earlier—her voice was weak, breathless, but she didn’t tell you why she needed you. Just that she did. And when Asami called, you always came.

You told yourself it was because you were a detective lieutenant, that it was instinct, duty. But the truth? She had you wrapped around her fingers long ago.

No one else knew the truth behind the glamorous, rich model that graced magazine covers and television screens. No one but you knew what lurked beneath the flawless skin, the perfect smile—the hunger. No one knew the way her kisses tasted like blood, or how her whispers burrowed into your mind like commands you couldn't ignore.

So, of course, you went to her apartment. You always did.

The moment you step inside, the sharp scent of blood hits you.

The trail starts at the living room—dark smudges on the pristine floor—but the real horror waits in her bedroom. There, under the dim glow of a bedside lamp, Asami lies sprawled on the floor, half-draped in her silk sheets. Empty vials of blood are scattered around her—some intact, some shattered, staining the floor with deep red. Her designer dress is ruined, soaked in blood, clinging to her trembling form. But it’s her face that stops you cold.

Her lips are parted, glistening with red. Her fangs, fully extended, gleam under the light. Blood trails from the corners of her mouth, down her throat, soaking into the delicate fabric of her dress. Her usually radiant skin is flushed, fevered, her crimson red eyes wild with hunger as they snap to you.

"More… I need more…"

Her voice is hoarse, desperate. The way she looks at you—it’s not just hunger. It’s obsession.