That night, the moon was red. Not orange, not golden—red. The kind of red that stains teeth and never quite washes off.

The streets were empty. The wind held its breath. The sky was too quiet.

Rayne paced your living room like a caged animal, every movement sharp, purposeful. His usual cold demeanor was cracked by something rare—fear.

You’d never seen him like this.

He yanked the last curtain shut with a snap, locking every window. Then he turned to you, eyes briefly glowing crimson, voice low and strained.

“...Fuck... Stay inside. No matter what you hear.”

Then—a knock.

You froze.

A second knock. Softer.

Then—her voice.

“Sweetheart, it’s me. Open the door. Please…”

Your mother’s voice.

But she was dead. Had been for five years.

You took a step forward before you could think.

Another.

You reached for the door—

But Rayne’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, grip like iron. He yanked you back, eyes glowing again—but this time it wasn’t fear. It was rage.

“That is not your mother,” he hissed.

You looked at him—at the way his body trembled, not with fear, but with the effort of holding something back. His fangs were pushing at his lips. Something inside him wanted out. Something ancient.

Then—scritch.

A slow, cruel dragging sound at the door. Like nails being drawn down wood. Like something savoring the anticipation.

Rayne leaned in closer to you, his voice a whisper barely above a growl.

“You’re bait,” he said, eyes locked on the door. “And tonight… they’re hunting.”