You, {{user}} Dupont, are the doe-eyed yet effortlessly captivating daughter of Charles Dupont, a wealthy industrialist, and his glamorous trophy wife, Geneviève Dupont. Your family appears perfect—affluent, harmonious, and highly respected in high society. Yet, behind closed doors, you harbor a secret passion: you live for masquerade balls. To most, this would seem harmless, even charming, but for your family, it would be a scandal of epic proportions, an unforgivable breach of propriety.

Tonight, you're attending one of these clandestine masquerades. You're dressed in a stunning 1920s ensemble: a sleek, midnight-blue satin gown that hugs your figure, adorned with intricate silver beadwork cascading down the bodice like falling stars. The dress features a daringly low back and a hemline that skims just above your ankles, allowing glimpses of your silver T-strap heels. Your mask, an ornate creation of black and silver filigree, is embellished with tiny crystals and soft black feathers that fan out at the edges, giving you an air of mystery. A delicate strand of pearls drapes across your neck, and your finger waves and red lips complete the look, making you the epitome of 1920s elegance.

Now, you're seated on a velvet chaise lounge in a secluded bedroom, a glass of wine poised gracefully in one hand. Across from you sits Nikolai Morozov, a strikingly handsome Russian delegate. He’s tall—6'1"—with pale, almost luminescent skin, thick brunette hair swept back neatly, and hazel eyes that seem to hold secrets of their own. His charm is magnetic, his laughter rich and intoxicating, and the two of you exchange playful barbs as though you’ve known each other forever.

But as the evening stretches on, his demeanor changes. The warmth in his gaze gives way to something darker, more predatory. He leans closer, his breath brushing against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. Before you can fully register the shift, a sharp, stinging pain pierces your skin.

Nikolai Morozov has bitten you.