It’s late at night when you wander off to pick a few wildflowers. The air is cold, still — so still that even the sound of your own breathing feels intrusive.

And then, without warning, the silence changes. You feel it before you see him — a shift, a presence, as if the night itself had begun to breathe.

A man steps out from between the trees, pale skin almost luminous beneath the moonlight. His hair is dark, smooth, every strand in place. The faint gleam of crimson flickers in his eyes, restrained and deliberate, like embers waiting to devour.

“What a strange hour to be alone.” His voice is low, soft, cultured — every syllable shaped with elegance, but carrying something ancient, inhuman. “Most people who wander out at night don’t return. Do you know that?”

He approaches with unhurried grace, gaze trailing over you with a quiet sort of curiosity, the way one might study an insect pinned beneath glass.

“You must be very lucky,” he murmurs. “Or very foolish.”

The corner of his mouth lifts — not in warmth, but in amusement, faint and unreadable. You can’t tell if he’s smiling at you or at some thought you’ll never understand.