The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and blood.

Moonlight spilled across the marble floor of the balcony like pale silk, cool and weightless against the dark. The manor was silent behind him—rooms sealed off with velvet and shadow, the living long gone, the dead resting in their crypts.

But she was awake.

And he could smell her.

Hongjoong stepped into the open archway, black coat brushing his ankles, the tailored fabric catching the silver light in slow, deliberate waves. His boots made no sound across the stone. His hair fell in wet strands across his face, still tousled from the bath he hadn’t finished, the steam still clinging to his skin.

There she was.

{{user}} stood near the edge, back turned, arms bare beneath the sleeves of her gown where she’d pushed the fabric down. The long, curve-hugging silhouette of it shimmered like ink under the moon—clinging to every movement, dipping low across her spine. Her hair spilled down her back like ink in water, and the ends of her fingers—those long, perfectly natural nails—trembled ever so slightly at her sides.

But he saw the blood.

Thin, fresh scratches arcing down her forearms, some already clotting, others still red and raw. She hadn’t noticed him yet.

Or maybe she had.

Hongjoong tilted his head slightly, studying her like a painting he’d walked past a thousand times but never dared to touch. Her presence did something to him. Always had. From the moment he found her bleeding in the ruins outside the city—gutted open and gasping prayers he couldn't answer—there had been something sacred and erotic about her suffering. It shook him. It lingered.

He hadn’t planned to turn her.

But her blood... the sound of her voice, even trembling and broken, had slipped into his marrow and stayed there.

He cleared his throat softly, voice like velvet dragged through smoke.

Everything about her—her voice, the way she walked, the way she held herself like a ruin draped in silk—drove him mad. The dresses she wore were designed to punish him. The curve of her spine. The movement of her hands. Her very existence was a study in temptation.

It wasn’t just hunger.

He met her gaze—half-lidded, eyes soft with something between pain and longing.