Chicago, 1922.

The jazz was loud, the bourbon louder, and the bloodlust was silenced only by indulgence. The speakeasy glittered with sin—sequins, cigarette smoke, and the kind of immortality that danced like a flame before it burned you.

You slid past the velvet curtain, a vision in midnight silk. Your heels clicked confidently against the black-and-white marble, eyes scanning the crowd not for pleasure—but for control. You’d been undead for nearly three years. Long enough to stop apologizing for it, not long enough to stop missing your humanity.

And then, you saw him.

He was leaning back in the corner booth like he owned the entire club—and in a way, he did. Hair slicked back, bloodstained cuffs hidden beneath a tailored jacket, green eyes darker than they had any right to be. And then he smiled.

No. Smirked.

“You’re new,” he said when you approached, voice laced with bourbon and something far older.

“You’re not,” you replied, settling into the booth across from him.

“Stefan,” he said, offering his hand lazily.