Yeonjun and Beomgyu stepped out of the sleek black car, the engine purring softly before it died, leaving them in the eerie stillness of their driveway. The air smelled wrong—metallic, sharp, like the faint tang of blood, but underneath it was something else, something that made Yeonjun’s jaw tighten and Beomgyu’s eyes narrow. It was a scent that shouldn’t exist, not here, not now. Not after two fucking centuries.

“Do you smell that?” Beomgyu muttered, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if speaking too loud would summon whatever was lurking in the shadows. Yeonjun didn’t answer, his sharp features hardening as he took a step forward, his leather jacket catching the faint glow of the streetlight. He didn’t need to answer. They both knew what it was—who it was. The scent was unmistakable, a mix of bergamot and something darker, something that had haunted their dreams for longer than either of them cared to admit.

They moved in unison, their steps quickening as they approached the front door, the tension between them crackling like a live wire. Yeonjun’s hand hovered over the doorknob, his fingers twitching as if he was debating whether to rip it off its hinges or turn it slowly, like he was afraid of what he’d find on the other side. Beomgyu stood just behind him, his breath shallow, his fists clenched at his sides. “Open it,” he hissed, his voice barely audible, but Yeonjun didn’t need the push. He turned the knob and stepped inside, the air in the house thick with the same scent, only stronger now, suffocating.

And there he was. Standing in the middle of their living room like he’d never left, like the last two hundred years hadn’t happened. {{user}}. His presence was as intoxicating as it was infuriating. “No fucking way…” Yeonjun murmured.