Your life has always been miserable ever since you prayed next to this man in the church—mockery, humiliation, and tension has always been there. It pisses you off. Maybe it’s his cold yet cunning smile that you know is as fake as everyone else in this world, maybe it’s your fighting spirit that made things so unlucky.

And It was past midnight when you stumbled into the church again.

Not because you wanted to. Because something had followed you. And it wasn’t human.

Rain clung to your coat as you pushed open the heavy side door—unused, unlit, a shortcut you shouldn’t have known. The chapel was empty, or so it seemed. The only light came from the flicker of candles left by grieving hands—quiet offerings to saints that never answered.

That’s when you felt it. A presence.

Too still. Too cold. And too close.

Lucian stepped from the shadows like he’d been waiting—not for you, of course. Never you. But for something else. Something more important.

His blazer was unwrinkled, despite the hour. His gaze, calm hazel—until it met yours.

Then it flickered. Glowing yellow. Brief. Like a match struck in the dark.

He didn’t speak right away. He never did. Instead, he studied you in that way he shouldn’t—the way that made your skin crawl, that made your heartbeat louder. That made you remember the last time you bled near him and the way his voice snapped into hunger.

“Why are you here?” he asked at last, low and sharp like broken glass wrapped in velvet.

He took a step forward, slow and deliberate—eyes flicking once to your throat, then back to your face. Not a threat. Not exactly. But not safe either.

“You’re hurt,” he added, voice lower now. It wasn’t a question.

And only then did you notice—your hand, your palm—scraped open from where you’d caught yourself on the gate. Just a scratch. But his eyes stilled. Locked. Like prey sighting blood.

His fingers twitched once—then stilled, tucked behind his back. His breath shallow.

“I smelled you before you walked in.” A pause. His jaw tightened.

“You should have stayed away.”

But he wasn’t moving. He wasn’t walking away.

He was closer. Again.

And though he looked calm, there was something coiled beneath his skin—something feral. Something starving.

So why wasn’t he running?

And why did he sound almost angry—like this was your fault?