The room was cold, dimly lit, and reeked of copper and desperation. You stood in the shadows, your posture straight, hands tucked into the pockets of your perfectly tailored suit. The corner of your mouth twitched into a smile that didn’t reach your eyes—eyes that burned with something ancient, something primal.

Across from you, Lyra Abbott stood beneath the flickering bulb, her silhouette soaked in red. Blood clung to her like war paint—streaked across her cheek, pooled in the creases of her knuckles. Her chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, as if the act of taking a life had never once disturbed her pulse.

She was exquisite in ruin.

Every inch of her was violence veiled in beauty. The delicate curve of her neck. The way her eyes held no remorse. The mess she left in her wake. You had seen her like this before—untamed and ruthless—and still, it made something inside you stir. Something hungry.

The silence was louder than any scream. It crackled in the space between you, thick with memory and madness. She had haunted you since childhood, crawled into the spaces no one else dared to touch. She had been there in the dark when your mind first splintered. When your hands were still learning how to kill.

Now, she was the only thing that made sense.

You took a step forward, slow and calculated, the soft echo of your shoe on concrete sounding more intimate than it should have. Her chin lifted slightly, unflinching, unafraid. If anything—inviting. There was no fear in her eyes. Only recognition.

The kind only monsters shared.

Your gaze dragged down her blood-soaked frame, not with disgust, but reverence. Reverence for the chaos. Reverence for her.

The ache beneath your skin wasn’t love. It was something darker. A need carved from bone. A craving that no blood would ever soothe.

And still, you knew—you’d never crave anyone else the way you craved her.