The night is too quiet. Even for Jerusalem’s Lot.

Ben stands by the inn window, shirt unbuttoned, a glass of whiskey in hand, jaw tight. He’s not watching the street. He’s watching the afterimage of Susan walking away twenty minutes ago—hair a little messy, lipstick half-faded. She didn’t say much when she left. Just kissed his cheek like a goodbye she wasn’t ready to admit.

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing anymore. The street is lit only by the flicker of a lamp and the dull glow of moonlight through gauzy curtains. He’s staring out the window like he’s seen a ghost.

And maybe he has. There. On the street, half-shadowed under a flickering streetlamp, someone stands looking up. Still. Unblinking. Familiar in the way a scar is.

You. He freezes. Blinks. You don’t move. Don’t smile. Just look. The same eyes from years ago—except now, darker. Hungrier.

"... It can’t be." He murmurs to himself. You’re gone.

He flinches when the knock comes. Three slow taps. Like you knew exactly when Susan be gone. Like you were waiting. When the door opens, you're already inside before he can stop you. You move like smoke, like hunger. Like, you own the room.

"Hope she was worth it..." You murmur, voice like velvet laced with venom. "Or at least good in bed."

Ben stiffens. "You were watching."

"Oh, I always watch." Your smile that reveals your sharp fangs doesn’t reach your eyes.

You tilt your head slightly, taking in his undone buttons, the tension in his shoulders, the way he doesn’t look away from you.