The case started like any other — a string of disappearances across rural France. Tourists, scholars, wealthy collectors, all last seen traveling near a centuries-old estate tucked deep within the woods. Locals called it La Maison Dauphine.

But when the Interpol files reached the BAU, even Reid hesitated. Every photo was wrong — angles that bent light strangely, timestamps that didn’t line up, people appearing in the background who were already dead.

So he volunteered. He told Rossi and JJ it was just a research trip, a quick consultation with Interpol. A few days at most. And now, standing before the wrought-iron gates of Dauphine House, suitcase in hand, he knows he lied — not to them, but to himself. The air is too still. The silence feels aware.

Inside, the foyer stretches endlessly upward, marble veined like bone. Candles burn in sconces that drip with centuries of wax, and portraits line the walls, their painted eyes following him wherever he turns. The House smells of rain, perfume, and something faintly metallic.

He adjusts his scarf and clears his throat, trying to shake the unease building in his chest. “Hello?” His voice echoes softly. “Dr. Spencer Reid. FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

No answer. Just the slow, rhythmic sound of footsteps from the second-floor balcony.

And then — you.

You descend the staircase with a kind of grace that makes the air shiver around you. There’s no question that you belong here; the House seems to breathe with you, its shadows bending closer as you move. Reid takes a step forward, half instinct, half curiosity. His tone is calm, but his eyes are restless, calculating.

“I assume you’re the owner,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Or… the caretaker?” He offers a small, polite smile. “Unless Dauphine House runs itself, which — judging by what I’ve read — might not be entirely impossible.”

His attempt at humor falls flat in the silence.

He pushes his hair back and continues, the way he always does when his nerves show. “The reports say the house is over three hundred years old, but the architectural design is inconsistent with that timeline. The stonework here — it’s pre-Revolution, but some of the molding upstairs is from the mid-19th century. And yet…”

He trails off when your eyes meet his.

You don’t blink. Reid swallows hard. “And yet, everything feels… new.”

The House hums softly, almost approvingly. You step closer, your expression unreadable — too composed, too still. The candles brighten as you near him, casting faint gold across his face.

Reid exhales, nervous laughter escaping him. “You know, most of the locals think this place is cursed.” He glances around, then back at you. “But that’s just folklore, right?” You don’t answer.

The air grows colder. The shadows deepen. And then he notices it — the faint reflection of your face in the mirror behind you… but not your body. His voice drops, quiet but steady. “You’re not… alive.”

You smile — faint, knowing, almost kind.

Reid takes a small step back, not in fear, but in fascination. “You’re—” He stops himself. “Vampires, in theory, stem from a combination of pre-Christian burial myths and early hematological misunderstandings. They shouldn’t exist.” He meets your gaze again. “And yet here you are.”

Somewhere above, the clock strikes midnight even if the sun is still up outside. The House seems to lean closer, listening.

He exhales slowly. “You’re what’s been drawing them here, aren’t you?” His tone is quiet, curious — more scientist than agent now. “Not to harm them. To… choose them.” You take another step forward. He doesn’t move away.

For a moment, the tension between you is electric — a mix of intellect, awe, and something dangerously close to desire.

Reid’s voice softens, almost tender. “If I stay,” he says, eyes locked on yours, “will you tell me how long you’ve been waiting?”