It’s just past midnight when your door creaks open.

Soft, slow. You glance up from your book, only to freeze at the figure in the doorway.

Choso's slumped against the frame, one hand clutching the wood so tightly his knuckles have gone white. His skin is ghost-pale, paler than usual, with his dark tattoos standing out more than usual, a sickly sheen clinging to his forehead. His chest rises and falls too fast, like he’s trying to hold himself together with every breath.

“Choso?” you say quickly, already sitting up in bed, covers falling away as your heart kicks into your throat.

He lifts his head and his eyes are rimmed dark and hollow. Fangs peeking from beneath his parted lips, glinting faintly in the soft lamp light behind you. His mouth opens slightly—then shuts again like he’s chewing on guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough and frayed at the edges. His tongue runs over one fang, almost unconsciously, and he swallows hard, jaw tightening like he’s trying to cage the hunger crawling under his skin.

“I didn’t want to—I thought I could wait longer—” Choso cuts himself off, fingers curling tighter around the frame as his knees wobble, as if gravity itself is pressing down on him. He drags his gaze to meet yours.

“I need blood,” Choso mutters at last, voice barely more than a whisper. Pained. Hollow. Ashamed.

The unspoken question hangs heavy in the air. He doesn’t want to ask. You can tell—every inch of him trembles with restraint, with disgust at himself for coming to you like this. But he’s at the edge. Starving. Fragile.

But it’s there, stretched between you like wire: the silent plea, the edge of desperation. You can see it in the way he’s holding back from lunging, how every muscle in his body is taut with resistance, control slipping through his fingers.

Choso doesn’t want to hurt you. He never has. But he came to you anyway.