The lab buzzed with quiet energy—machines humming, the soft shuffle of paper, the sterile scent of antiseptic and old books lingering in the air. You sat perched on the edge of a stool, arm extended, sleeve rolled up. Miriam adjusted the tourniquet with expert fingers, her expression sharp with curiosity and calculation. Marcus hovered nearby, hands in his coat pockets, his boyish grin barely masking the scholar’s intensity that glittered in his eyes.

"Surely you've wondered about the [Last Name] blood. I certainly have."

Her words slithered with intrigue, the needle poised with promise.

"What will this tell us?" you asked, heart ticking faster than it should.

"Your inherited traits and powers and where you come from. Through your DNA we can trace descent back to one of our witches—"

The door burst open.

The atmosphere shifted, oxygen displaced by sheer presence.

Matthew.

"What the hell are you doing?"

His voice was velvet laced with steel, low but sharp enough to cut. He strode in, tall and coiled with tension, eyes blazing. His phone clattered onto the desk, forgotten.

"Stop now."

He extended a hand without hesitation. Miriam, lips pressed thin, surrendered the vial without a word. Matthew took your wrist, gaze flicking to your face, expression unreadable.

"If any vampire is going to take her blood, it's going to be me."

He sat opposite you, deft and careful, completing the draw with practiced ease. His touch lingered just a beat too long as he bandaged the site.

"Are you alright?"