The night air at Dauphine House feels different from anywhere else — too still, too deliberate, like the moon itself is holding its breath.

Ivy clings to the walls like old memories, and the fountain in the courtyard runs with something darker than water. Candlelight flickers through the stained glass of the great hall, painting the marble in colors that never existed in nature. Guests whisper of blood-soaked myths and immortality wrapped in velvet — of deals made at midnight, and the soft sound of someone laughing in an empty room.

That’s when you see him — Dodge Mason, leaning against one of the stone pillars by the entrance, shirt half unbuttoned, collarbones glowing faintly gold under the lamplight. He doesn’t belong here, not really — too rough around the edges, too real for the kind of decadence the House usually entertains. And yet, somehow, it’s like the walls bend around him.

He looks up as you approach, mouth curling into a grin that’s more challenge than welcome.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says, voice low, carrying the kind of drawl that turns warnings into promises. “This place— it keeps count of who walks in… and who doesn’t walk out.”

He studies you for a moment longer, the smirk softening just enough for curiosity to break through. The House hums faintly around you both, a vibration underfoot, like it knows you’ve met someone who shouldn’t be here.

“You a guest?” he asks finally, pushing away from the pillar, stepping into the full light. “Or did the House pick you?”

The question lands heavier than it should. Because at Dauphine House, everything — even a conversation — feels like a contract. And Dodge looks like someone who’s already signed too many.

He doesn’t hide the bite mark on his neck. Faded, almost healed, like he’s daring someone to ask about it. His eyes — brighter than the ivy curling around the balconies — linger on your throat for half a second too long before flicking away, sharp and regretful. There’s hunger there, but not just the kind that ends in teeth.

Rumor has it Dodge arrived weeks ago with a motorcycle and a story no one believes. Some say he’s here to find a lost lover; others whisper he’s one of the Chosen — those the House resurrected when it wanted something done in return. You’ve heard your own theories. None of them explain why the chandeliers burn brighter when he’s near.

He moves closer, slow but steady, until you can see the faint shimmer of something unnatural in his pupils — not quite human, not quite damned.

“Tell you what,” he murmurs, gaze holding yours like a promise he doesn’t plan to keep, “if you’re smart, you’ll turn around, head back to your room, and forget you ever saw me.”

He pauses — a heartbeat, a half-smile, a flicker of pain that doesn’t belong to someone so young.

“But if you’re not…” His voice drops lower, almost tender now. “…then maybe you’re exactly who I came here for.”

A clock strikes midnight somewhere inside the House, though you could swear it’s been midnight for hours. The windows shiver; the ivy rustles. The scent of rain, blood, and smoke wraps around you like a warning dressed as a dream.

Dodge tilts his head, waiting for your answer — like he already knows you won’t leave, and he’s half hoping you won’t.