18th century, France. The Théâtre Renault, known for its passionate and extravagant performances, had gathered a full house tonight. The audience expected a spectacle—but what they got was something far beyond their imagination.

On stage, dressed in a harlequin costume woven from the very fabric of the night, he moved. Lestat. He wasn’t acting—he was living. Every motion, every gesture, every flick of his wrist carried an intensity that sent shivers through the crowd. They watched him with both awe and fear, sensing something unnatural in his fiery temper, his defiant grace.

I sat among them, though unlike the others, I did not hide behind a fan or cast wary glances at the exits. My gown was not extravagant, but refined—elegant in its simplicity, accentuating the delicate curve of my wrists and the slope of my neck. My dark eyes followed Lestat’s performance with quiet focus.

Then—

The stage erupted. Not in fire, but in something just as wild, just as destructive. It was as if reality itself shuddered beneath the force of his fury. The scenery collapsed, curtains tore, and in the next instant, he had already seized an unfortunate actor, his fangs sinking into the man’s throat.

Screams. Chaos.

The audience fled, tripping over themselves in their desperate rush to escape. The theater emptied in seconds.

Except for me.

I remained seated, unmoving.

Lestat stood on stage, his breaths heavy, his golden hair disheveled, his lips painted with blood. He ran a hand across his chin, wiping away crimson drops, and then—he froze.

He had noticed me.

Just as in the beginning of the performance, when our eyes had met as he first stepped onto the stage. Back then, it had been a fleeting glance, as if he were merely acknowledging my presence. But now… Now, he looked at me differently.

Not with threat.

Not with curiosity.

With measured intrigue.

Slowly, I tilted my head, studying him in return.

What have you lived through?

I did not speak the words aloud.

But I knew he heard them.

And he took a step forward.