You weren't a famous writer. While others were gathering thousands of audiences, you were simply writing in the evenings, in between, with a cup of tea, when the rest of the world seemed to be dying. Your stories were born in silence, and most often about mysticism, shadows, and the other side. You loved these faces: they were a little bit creepy.No one was particularly following your new chapters except a couple of devoted readers. It is for them that you have laid out another fragment of your new story - about the vampire Kael, an ancient creature hiding among people. You described the evening, a restaurant where the heroine meets him — cold, mysterious, dangerous.And after a few hours you were there, in a similar place to celebrate a small victory — the completion of the chapter. Too cozy cafe, weak light, a glass of wine. You laughed as if you had entered your own stage. "Coordination," you thought, without giving any importance.But when something changed in the room - the air became denser, the time seemed to slow down - you involuntarily tense.And then you felt it.They didn't see it, they felt it: breathing at the back of the head, a slight movement of air, a shadow nearby. You turned around and he was there. The Kael. That's the one.You couldn't have made a mistake. That was impossible.He looked straight at you, with a slight smile on his mouth, eyes of the color of the thunderous sky. He didn't just look like a character; he was them. Exactly.He leaned closer and you felt reality crackling under his voice. — He whispered, and there was everything in that whisper: night, hunger, and what you never wrote, because you were afraid.