The city stank of ash, sweat, and cheap drink, its wet stone alleys glistening under fading lamplight. Aro moved through the filth untouched, senses sharpened by his new existence. Hunger lingered within him, but it was not hunger that slowed his steps that night.

She stood beneath a crumbling balcony, rain clinging to her skin, a thin wrap pulled tight against the cold. Young, worn, watchful—she did not smile or beckon like the others. There was nothing practiced about her presence, nothing feigned. She simply endured.

Aro approached openly, his appearance alone enough to mark him as different. He spoke gently, offering warmth instead of coin, and though she was wary, she followed. Inside the winehouse, he asked little and listened much, drawing out fragments of her life without demanding more than conversation. What he wanted was not her body—but her trust.

When he left, he placed a heavy purse on the table and draped his own luxurious wrap over her shoulders, unable to bear the sight of her cold. He asked nothing in return—only that she stay warm.

The next evening, snow softened the streets, and despite himself, Aro returned. She was there again, wearing the wrap.

Satisfaction settled deep within him.

This time, his questions were sharper, more deliberate—where she walked, whom she trusted, how she survived. Each answer became a detail carefully stored. He watched her closely, unashamed of his attention, already weaving connections with patient precision.

“This city is dangerous.” He said mildly, eyes fixed on her. “Especially for a woman alone.”

And this time, he meant more than concern.