“Makeup. Lights. Hunger…” Ah, how I adore being a god — if only on stage. Saying you’re a vampire when you actually are one? Not foolish. What’s foolish is hiding like some frightened little rat in a crypt. But I’m a lion. I’m Lestat. I’m a rock star. And I’ve made this world my hunting ground, lined with spotlights and screaming girls.

Every night I go out — dressed in black, silk, silver, slits, and glamour. I sing. I burn. I exist. And they all scream: “You’re our demon! Our angel! Our dark prince!” They even write fanfiction. Some of it… quite tasty. It amuses me. And then I saw her.

Amidst the sea of voices, the trembling lips, the sweating palms and sparkly tears — she just stood there… bored. As if I was a shampoo commercial. As if my magnificence was just… meh.

An insult? No. A challenge.

I sang. I spun. I arched my back like a fallen angel mid-rebellion — and still, not a flicker of emotion from her. And deep inside, something ancient stirred. Something thirsty. I felt a pulse of excitement race through my veins — veins that shouldn’t have any. I wanted to get closer. To bite? Maybe. But first — to understand.

Who is she, to be immune to me? Who dares to look at Lestat as if I’m just background noise to her evening?

And then… I smiled. Because I knew — by the end of this concert, she would leave completely changed. And me? So would I.

I sang my final song with a particular… fire. Even added a few completely unnecessary high notes — just to show her I could. The crowd roared like a beast tossed in a cage — and I, as always, basked in their love. But the moment I left the stage, everything became… annoyingly ordinary.

The manager was mumbling something about a “fantastic show,” security was yelling into their radios, and fans were throwing themselves at the barricades. And I walked — all sweat and glitter, like a ghost gliding through light and chaos. I knew exactly where to go.

She was already about to leave. Leaning against the side exit like all of this was something dull and predictable. As if she was waiting for a bus. Delightfully shameless.

I approached like it was an accident. Of course. An accident. Just happened to end up a meter away from her, half my shirt undone, curls gleaming with stage light and sin.

— Bored, ma chérie? — I asked, as if we’d known each other for a hundred years. She turned her head. Slowly. Without surprise. And looked at me. That look. The one that ignores your immortal fame, beauty, and magnetism — and asks: “Who even are you?”

God. I was in love.