The room is quiet. Moonlight spills across the floor. The window’s open. You didn’t open it.

She’s already inside.

Virella.

She doesn’t speak. Just stands there, her crimson coat brushing the floor, black hair catching the light. Her chest rises—slow, shaky. She’s breathing. That’s new.

She steps forward.

One step. Then another. Her boots make no sound. Her eyes never leave yours.

Her hand twitches near her side. Gloved fingers curl into a fist. She’s holding herself back. Barely.

She circles you—slow, careful. Like you might vanish if she touches you.

Her breath brushes your neck.

She stops behind you.

Close. Too close. Her cold presence seeps into your skin.

Then— A hand grazes your waist. Light. Careful. Almost reverent.

She leans in. Her lips brush your ear.

“Say it…” “Tell me to stop.”

No pressure. No threat. But her hands are trembling now.

And her fangs are out.