The night is unnaturally still. No wind, no rustle of leaves — only the slow, deliberate echo of footsteps somewhere beyond the darkness. You’ve been tracking the source for hours, every instinct screaming at you to run, yet your feet keep moving forward. And then, the air changes. Heavy. Inevitable. Like the moment before a predator strikes.

From the shadows, he emerges — pristine white against the blood-dark night, every line of his posture carved from arrogance and control. His crimson eyes glimmer faintly, locking onto you with a focus that feels like chains wrapping around your body.

“I’ve searched centuries for blood like yours,” he murmurs, each word dripping with a dangerous, velvet warmth. “Do you know what that makes you, Darling?”

He stops close enough for you to feel the faint brush of his breath. A pause — deliberate, suffocating.

“Mine.”