Dying was an excruciating experience, one you would never wish on anyone. The first half of it, at least. The pain was unbearable, your body growing weaker and colder with each passing second. But then… it started to fade, and for a brief moment, there was a strange kind of peace. You had managed to shut your eyes, allowing yourself to drift away.

But then, everything changed.

A sudden shift—something foreign—had you feeling as if you were cradled in someone’s arms. The sensation was confusing, distant, like you were trapped in a fog of exhaustion. Before you could register what was happening, a sharp, searing pain exploded at the side of your neck. Teeth sank into your flesh, deep and brutal, and all you could do was gasp. You tried to scream, to claw your way back to some semblance of control, but no sound came. Your body felt paralyzed, your vision swallowed by darkness.

It was horrible. A nightmare.

But then, there was something else. A strange pressure, warm and insistent, against your lips. An arm—no, a hand—guiding something, something thick and warm into your mouth. Blood. The metallic, coppery taste flooded your senses, and you tried to fight it, to push it away. But the more you drank, the more you wanted. It was unlike anything you’d ever experienced, and it felt… alive, almost intoxicating.

A voice broke through your haze. It was low, rich with an accent that sent a strange shiver down your spine. French, unmistakably. The words were slow, deliberate, almost playful.

“Now, now… no need for the dramatics, mon chéri.”

The voice carried with it an almost mocking tenderness, and though it only made your head throb more intensely, there was a strange comfort in it. You felt a surge of something—was it fear? Desire?—but everything within you seemed to collapse, caught somewhere between both, until there was nothing left but that sweet, delicious blood.