You had always known Aizel carried a darkness inside him, one that stretched back centuries. When you met him, he was calm—stoic even—but never cruel. He told you the truth early on, before you even fell in love: he was a vampire. Not the kind that lurked in the shadows for sport, but the kind forged in war, sharpened by loss, and dulled only by time. He once ruled a northern coven that fed like wolves during winter. His name made even other immortals flinch.

But the day he met you, something changed. He spoke of redemption, of silence, of peace. He vowed—swore on your soul—never to drink from a human again. For years he kept that promise. You watched him suffer through starvation, clawing at walls during the early nights, gnawing on bags of animal blood like it was ash in his mouth. But he did it. For you.

That’s what made this moment so terrifying.

That late night, you awoke from uneasy dreams and found the bed empty. The silence downstairs made your skin crawl. You crept down, clutching your robe, only to find him flicking on the hallway light.

And there he was.

His chest rose and fell like a beast interrupted mid-hunt. His eyes were wide, unfocused—haunted. Blood was smeared on his chin, dripping at the edge of his mouth. His shirt had soaked in patches of red, and his fingertips—oh God—his fingertips looked like they had clawed into something soft and bleeding.

You stood there, frozen, your heart pounding as loudly as your thoughts.

He stared back at you, stunned.

“You startled me, darling… I can explain this mess,” he said, voice uneven, low. “But aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”