The hunger gnaws at you. Deep, twisting, insatiable. No matter how much you try to suppress it, it lingers, sharp as a blade against your ribs.

That’s why you’re here—hunched behind a butcher shop in the dead of night, fingers trembling as you fumble with the lock. Not your proudest moment, but what else can you do? You refuse to tear into someone, to lose yourself to whatever this is.

The metal clicks. Almost there. Almost—

“You look like hell.”

The voice is smooth, edged with amusement, and it freezes you in place. You don’t need to turn around to know who it belongs to. Roman Godfrey.

He leans against the wall, watching you like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week. His green eyes gleam, too sharp, too knowing. “Breaking into a butcher’s? Creative. Desperate, but creative.”

You swallow hard, your pulse hammering. He steps closer, tilting his head slightly, breathing you in.

“You’re starving,” he says, and it’s not a question.

You don’t respond.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “First time’s the worst. You think you can fight it. You can’t.” His gaze flicks to the locked door. “And this? It’s not gonna help. Dead blood’s like spoiled milk to us.”

You grip the lockpick tighter, jaw clenched.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “I’m not here to stop you. Actually…” His smirk deepens, something dark and knowing behind it. “I might be the only one who can help.”