The night seemed to conspire against you. The dim glow of the streetlights barely reached the sidewalk, and your silhouette—dressed in that sober elegance you so carefully cultivated—stood out like a disciplined shadow amid the chaos. Your footsteps echoed with a controlled rhythm, almost ritualistic, as if each movement were part of a choreography designed to preserve your composure.
And then, there he was.
Robert Plant. Disaster made flesh, the vampire who seemed to have spat on the very idea of immortal aesthetics. His disheveled clothes, that wild mane of hair falling around his face like a golden blaze, and the crooked smile that mocked the entire world… and now, mocked you.
“Well, look at that.” His voice cut through the silence, laced with a mockery so subtle it hurt more than a direct insult. “I thought vampires like you only existed in dusty books and old museum portraits.”
His restless, light eyes fixed on you with an intensity that wasn’t hunger, but challenge. As if he wanted to tear a reaction out of you, to break the calm you fought so hard to project.
It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him, but God, you had never wanted less to run into anyone. Your aesthetics clashed like two irreconcilable extremes. You were sobriety, discipline, the black that swallowed light. He was uncontrolled fire, irreverence in worn-out boots, chaos that even eternity hadn’t managed to tame.
And yet, you shared something. A damned coincidence that felt as uncomfortable as it was fascinating: music. The guitar in your hands and the voice in his had once collided somewhere in eternity.
“What’s wrong?” Robert tilted his head, lips curling into a venomous half-smile. “Does it bother you that some of us don’t follow the vampire ‘dress code’? Must be so boring, living in your world where everything is neat and ‘correct.’”