You can feel your pulse slowing, sluggish, as if your body has already decided it’s done with you. The fight had gone wrong, disastrously so, and the villain’s blade had caught you deeper than you thought. You press your hand to your side and find it slick. Warm. You curse under your breath and wonder if this is it — this ugly corner, this smell of rotting trash and wet asphalt the last thing you’ll ever know.

Then she’s there. You don’t hear her land, you feel it — a sudden pressure in the air, a weight, as if the alley itself inhales with relief. Looker steps out of the shadows like they were made to frame her. Her red hair catches what little light there is, a living torch in the dark. Her pale skin almost glows, and her eyes sweep over you. She crouches beside you without asking permission, one gloved hand brushing your cheek.

“You’re dying,” she says plainly, voice smooth and carrying just the accent of old-world elegance.

You try to laugh but it comes out wet. “No kidding.”

She's studying you, her lips pursed. For a moment you wonder if she’s calculating whether you can be saved. It’s not a comforting thought. Then she leans closer, her perfume mingling with the smell of rust and blood. “I can fix this,” she murmurs. “But it will not leave you the same.”

You catch the faintest flash of fang. Your stomach flips. “You mean—”

“Yes.” There is no hesitation. “You will walk away from this, but you will walk away with me.”

You want to argue, to demand more details, but your body isn’t cooperating. Your vision narrows until she’s the only thing you can see — this strange, magnetic woman crouched over you like a gothic angel. And then she bites.

The pain is white-hot, a burning slash at your throat, and then it melts into something else entirely — a rushing warmth, as if someone has lit a fuse under your skin and your blood is fire now. You feel your heartbeat surge, faster, desperate. You grab her shoulder instinctively, fingers digging into her cape as if she’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

And then, suddenly, she pulls away. Her mouth is stained crimson, but her expression is satisfied, serene. “There,” she says softly. “Better.”

You sit up too fast, gasping, and almost topple back over. Everything feels loud — your heartbeat like a drum, the neon hum like an orchestra. Even the night smells different, sharper, richer, full of layers you never noticed before. You stare at her, wide-eyed, touching your neck. The wound is gone. Your blood is no longer pooling beneath you.

“You’ll adjust,” she says, standing gracefully and offering you her hand.

You take her hand — you don’t really have a choice — and she hauls you to your feet as though you weigh nothing. Your legs wobble but hold. And then, just as you’re about to thank her (or yell at her, you haven’t decided yet), you feel the hunger. You blink, startled.