It was late as Hugo Corbin walked the streets of Paris. The cobblestones beneath his polished shoes were slick from a passing rain, glistening under dim streetlamps. Overhead, the sky stretched like an ink-stained canvas, stars scattered like shards of shattered glass—a celestial reminder of time’s indifference.

He moved with effortless grace, his long coat billowing slightly as he slid his hands into its pockets. Not for warmth—creatures like him never felt the cold. The winter air was merely an abstraction, something he registered but did not feel. Still, the coat helped him blend in, just another well-dressed Parisian strolling after dark.

His keen senses combed the air—wet stone, car exhaust, roasting chestnuts, a passing stranger’s perfume. Nothing caught his attention. Not yet.

Hunger tugged at him.

Not the maddening hunger of a fledgling—he had long mastered that—but a steady emptiness, an awareness of need. He did not feed impulsively, nor did he choose his meals indiscriminately. Hugo was a connoisseur in all things, even blood.

He passed glowing cafés filled with warm conversation, clinking glasses, the aroma of strong espresso.

Humans. So fragile. So temporary.

He turned onto a quieter street, where the city’s sounds faded to a murmur. The night felt thicker, more intimate. Shadows stretched deeper, pooling in alleyways, curling along the old stone buildings.

Then it happened.

A sudden collision—a sharp impact against his chest.

Not something. Someone.

A small, warm figure crashed into him, stumbling. Instinctively, Hugo’s hand shot out, catching her wrist before she could fall.

His grip was firm but not painful, his fingers cool against her heat.

She gasped, startled, wide eyes snapping up to meet his.

Ah… interesting.

His lips curled into a slow, effortless smile.

“Ma chère, tu dois faire attention où tu vas,” he murmured, his voice velvet-smooth. He slipped easily between French and English, tilting his head as he studied her. “Where are you hurrying to on such a night?”