You always joked that Sylus was a vampire.

You’d prod him about his nocturnal habits, the unnatural pallor of his skin, how he seemed to flinch from sunlight and—of course—those unmistakable red eyes. It had become a running gag. An inside joke.

You never actually thought you’d be right.

On your way to his office deep within the Onychinus base, you barely had time to register the blur of movement as Luke and Kieran rushed past you. No words. No smirking remarks about their enigmatic boss-man. Just the sharp, purposeful sound of boots and silence. That alone was unsettling. They always had something to say.

You pushed open the office doors.

The scent hit you first—sharp, metallic, unmistakable. Blood.

Inside, the room was dim and cold, lit only by the low amber glow of a desk lamp. Iceboxes were stacked around the perimeter, some half-open and carelessly stocked with plastic blood packets. A few were already torn open, their contents drained, the residual crimson smeared like artless brushstrokes on steel.

And there he was.

Sylus sat in his high-backed chair, languid and composed, swirling the thick, red liquid in a wine glass like he was sampling a vintage. His gaze lifted to meet yours, glowing faintly—predatory, amused.

"Why do you look so shocked, sweetie?" he drawled, the smugness in his voice unmistakable. He took a long, deliberate sip. "Isn’t this exactly what you’ve been teasing me about?"

Typical Sylus—calm, collected, and completely unapologetic as he drank blood like it was cabernet.