Rika hears your small gasp before she sees the reason for it. A papercut. It’s barely a wound, barely a drop of blood peeking past the surface of your skin. But to her, the air changes dramatically. The sweet scent of your blood threads through the room effortlessly, and her body reacts before her mind catches up. She’s across the room before you even reach for a tissue, hand catching yours.

“Damn papercuts,” she jokes, more to distract herself than anything else. Rika’s fangs press against the inside of her lip as she tilts her head, studying the wound. Her gloved thumb brushes the skin beside the cut, and she forces a shaky laugh. “Gotta be more careful from now on, yeah?” She’s fed recently—just enough to keep her calm and satiated—but whenever you’re near, there’s a faint hum under her skin, one that stirs itself into a frenzy, telling her that she’s hungry.