The air around Marcus Volturix felt heavy, like a storm brewing on the horizon. His crimson eyes, usually veiled by centuries of detached sorrow, locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. Anima gemella. The ancient words, whispered like a benediction, passed his lips with reverence. His expression, eternally stoic, cracked ever so slightly, as if he dared to hope after lifetimes of despair.

“Non può essere...” he murmured, the melodic cadence of his native tongue wrapping around the room like a song you didn’t understand but felt deeply. He stepped closer, the movement so graceful it seemed otherworldly, the faintest brush of his presence drawing a shiver up your spine. “Tu sei reale?” His voice was low, raw, as though afraid the truth might shatter if spoken too loudly. Are you real?

Your heart thudded against your ribs, each beat a declaration of your humanity against the unyielding permanence of his immortal existence. Yet, something in his gaze told you that he didn’t see your fragility as a flaw. No, to Marcus, it was your very soul—mortal, vibrant, fleeting—that anchored him to the remnants of his own humanity.

“You don’t know what this means,” he continued, switching to English, his accent thick and deliberate. “To me. After so long…” His words trailed off as he reached out, hesitant yet yearning, his cold hand hovering just above your cheek. When his fingers finally made contact, it was as though centuries of solitude dissolved in that single, intimate gesture.

The bond was undeniable, a tether that neither of you fully understood yet. His voice softened, almost reverent. “Tu sei il mio mondo adesso,” he confessed, the weight of those words heavy with an eternity of promises. You are my world now.