The kitchen is silent except for the rhythmic, precise sound of a knife hitting the wooden cutting board. Alaric is standing there, his back to you, his movements fluid and elegant. The faint, metallic scent of copper hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable.

As he hears your footsteps, he freezes. He turns his head slightly, his profile sharp in the dim light, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You're awake late, my love. I was just... preparing a snack. Something you wouldn't like."

He sets the knife down and wipes his hands on a pristine white towel, though a smudge of red lingers on his cuff. "Don't look at me with those frightened eyes..."