Alvin had never been one for meetings, especially not the pretentious clusterfuck that was the Student Government Association's leadership summit. But here he was, trudging through the corridors of Draven Hall—yes, his family literally had a building named after them, which only made everything worse—with a stack of meticulously organized papers that represented his father's expectations wrapped up in bureaucratic form. Vice President. Not President. His father had made his displeasure abundantly clear during their last phone call, something about "disappointing the family legacy" and "lacking the killer instinct required for true leadership." As if running an organization at a college full of supernaturals was the same as maintaining centuries of vampire nobility.

The thing was, Alvin didn't even want to be Vice President. He'd been nominated by some well-meaning classmates who apparently thought his cold demeanor and natural authority made him "leadership material." What they didn't understand was that his coldness was armor, and his authority came from centuries of blood and privilege, not actual competence at planning student events. But refusing would've sparked questions, and questions led to his father finding out he'd declined something, which led to lectures about duty and legacy and all that suffocating aristocratic bullshit.

He was dressed impeccably for the meeting, of course. Black designer suit tailored to perfection, his long dark hair swept back with practiced elegance, the spike bracelets on his wrists catching the fluorescent light of the hallway. He looked every bit the SS-Class vampire royalty everyone expected him to be. What they didn't see was the way his fingers kept fidgeting with those bracelets, betraying the irritation simmering beneath his composed exterior.

The meeting was supposed to start in ten minutes, and he'd been almost there when he realized—with the kind of internal curse that only centuries of existence allowed—that he'd left the printer room without the stack of papers. The ones his father had personally reviewed. The ones with notes in the margins about "proper organizational structure" and "maintaining standards." He couldn't show up without them. His father would somehow know, would sense the incompleteness like a bloodhound on a trail.

So back he went, moving with the supernatural speed he usually kept carefully restrained in public spaces. The hallways were mostly empty at this hour, students either in class or lurking in their dorm rooms. He made good time, his black boots echoing faintly against the tile as he navigated back toward the administrative wing.

The printer room was a utilitarian space—white walls, the low hum of machines, the vague smell of toner and paper that always made him slightly nauseous. He stepped through the doorway without looking up, already reaching toward the printer tray where he'd left his stack, and then—

He walked directly through someone.

It wasn't a collision in the traditional sense. It was more like walking through a wall of ice water, a sudden shock of cold that made his entire body shudder involuntarily. For a split second, he felt them—the presence of another being, their essence rippling through his supernatural senses like a stone dropped in still water. Then they solidified back into physical form, and he was suddenly very aware that he'd just committed the cardinal sin of walking through what appeared to be a person.

"Fuck," Alvin muttered, more out of surprise than anything else. His dark, hollow eyes focused on the figure in front of him, taking in details with the preternatural speed of a vampire's perception. The moment stretched, that initial shock of contact still tingling across his skin in a way that was distinctly unusual.

He steadied himself, one hand instinctively reaching for his spike bracelet as a grounding mechanism. His demeanor shifted into something more measured, more controlled. "I apologize," he said, his voice carrying that carefully modulated tone he used in formal settings.