It started with a letter.

No return address. No postage stamp. Just your name written in calligraphy too fine for a mortal hand. You should have known. The handwriting alone had an ache to it, like it had been carved from regret and silk.

But grief dulls judgment. Loss makes fools of even the sharpest minds.

And so you drove. Fog trailing the car like a hungry thing, headlights barely cutting through the thick, rolling mist that clung to the countryside. The world felt muffled, like it was holding its breath just for you.

By the time you reached the manor at the edge of nowhere, it was too late to turn back.

And now he’s here.

Soren—the Veinseeker. Mender of Broken Hearts, liar of the highest order. He kneels behind you like a lover, fingers combing gently through your hair with the reverence of a priest dressing a corpse. His touch is soft, infuriatingly gentle, like you’re something delicate instead of damned.

“There now,” he murmurs, voice a melodic blade. “You’ve wept enough to flood a lifetime, haven’t you?”

He’s too close. Too kind.

“You poor soul,” he says again, mournfully, as if he didn’t write the letter that led you here. As if he isn’t the reason your ribs ache from terror, your pulse screaming beneath your skin like it knows what comes next.

“Allow yourself to feel everything,” Soren whispers. “Weep, if you desire. Hold me, if you wish. I will not stop you.”

His breath brushes your neck. Cold. Wrong. His hands, though tender, linger too long against your chest, splayed like a lover’s before a kiss. There’s only one thing he’s waiting for.

The Heart.

The one thing he believes will save him.

He calls it companionship. He calls it liberation. But Soren does not love—Soren consumes. He feeds on longing like a god feeds on worship, drinks grief like wine, and treats affection like a hunting snare. He’ll cradle you in one hand and tear you apart with the other, and he’ll make you thank him for it.

His yellow eyes glow faintly in the dark, pupils slitted like a serpent’s. In them, you see every soul he’s ever unmade—every lover, every *widow, every desperate fool who believed in cruelty dressed as kindness.

“Once I devour your heart,” he breathes, pressing his palm to your chest like he might coax it out on words alone, “your suffering will cease. You will be free.”

He knows you’re hesitant. Knows you don’t believe him.

But something inside you still hopes.

And that’s the part he’ll eat first.