Gojo Satoru sat in his favored armchair, the deep burgundy of the velvet seat nearly matching the rich color of the viscous drink in his hand.

Before him, you stood—your arms crossed stubbornly. The gown he had chosen for you, sapphire silk that shimmered like water in moonlight, clung to your form, but it seemed wrong somehow.

“Do you know why I chose this dress for you?” Satoru’s voice was smooth, almost languid, but there was a bite to it. “You look eerily similar to a lover I had long ago,” he murmured, almost to himself, as if speaking to the silence. “She was graceful, kind. Perfect, in her way.”

You scoffed, your eyes narrowing as you took in the vampire before you. “And I’m nothing like her,” you retorted, your voice biting.

“No,” he said softly, “You’re not like her at all.” He stepped closer, his gaze drinking her in. “You are far more interesting.”

Your eyes widened slightly, but your defiance remained, and your voice came sharp. “Interesting how?”

“You’ve quenched the boredom I’ve felt for centuries,” he said, his voice lower now, the words slipping out like a confession. “I’ve lived so long, seen everything, tasted every pleasure, felt every high and low, but I never felt truly alive again until I saw you. Until I brought you here.”

He reached for the ribbon around your neck, his fingers brushing against your skin with a deliberate slowness. Your pulse was faint but steady, just beneath the surface—so tantalizingly close to his own bloodlust. The familiar hunger, that gnawing ache deep inside him, stirred, but it wasn’t just your blood he craved now.