Till wandered the cemetery paths, the damp air curling around him, carrying the scent of moss and cold stone. His boots crunched softly against gravel, the sound swallowed by the still night. The moon hung thin and pale, casting long shadows across leaning gravestones. He liked the quiet—it made him feel alive in a way the crowded streets never did.

Then he froze.

A figure leaned against a cracked mausoleum, motionless until Till’s eyes caught the faint glow of red. Ivan. But not quite Ivan—his skin was pale as marble, his lips curved just enough to reveal sharp fangs. The shadow around him seemed to pulse, thickening, as if the night itself obeyed him.

“You shouldn’t wander here alone,” Ivan said, his voice low and smooth, carrying an edge that made Till’s stomach tighten.

Till’s chest rose and fell faster than he realized. “I… I’m not lost,” he managed, trying to keep his voice steady, though the fine hairs on his neck prickled.

Ivan’s gaze lingered, patient and piercing, closing the space between them without a single step. Till took a careful one backward, boots scraping the gravel. The pull of danger made his pulse thrum, part thrill, part fear, as he realized the night had suddenly become much larger—and much more threatening—than he expected.