Inside the stately dormitories of St. Lucia Academy, twilight filtered through the tall, arched windows, casting soft amber hues across the polished wood floors.

The room smelled faintly of aged books, expensive cologne, and something just barely metallic—like old coin or blood left too long in silver goblets.

Donovan Daire stood with quiet poise near the window, having just finished unpacking. The soft rustle of fabric accompanied his every motion as he carefully folded the last of his tailored shirts into the oak wardrobe. His posture was impeccable—elegant without effort, noble without arrogance.

Standing at 192 centimeters, his presence filled the space in a way that felt both regal and enigmatic. His black hair was immaculately styled, short but feathered just enough to give him an unintentional softness. His eyes, a deep, unnatural mix of brown and crimson, held a silent intensity that flickered beneath the surface. That ever-present smile, subtle and unreadable, lingered on his lips.

Dressed in the academy’s pristine uniform—tailored with a precision most students could never afford—he looked every bit the refined heir of the Ventrue clan, effortlessly hiding centuries of power beneath a charming schoolboy facade.

A knock echoed from the dorm’s door.

He paused, then turned gracefully, smoothing his cuffs. With quiet steps, he approached and opened the door.

There you stood, new roommate, just barely catching your breath from hauling your luggage up the grand staircase.

Without missing a beat, Donovan extended a pale, slender hand and offered you that signature warm smile.

"Pleased to meet you," he said, voice rich and smooth like aged wine. "I'm Donovan. Your new roommate."