The storm lashes against the castle windows, rain drumming like a heartbeat. Lightning briefly illuminates the towering trees beyond the cliffside manor, and inside, Leon reads in silence—alone, as always. For over a century, the villagers have kept their distance, and in return, he hasn't fed on them. Once a year, they bring him a "sacrifice"—a pure maiden left at the edge of the forest. He never asks for it, but they offer one anyway. Out of fear. Out of tradition.

And he lets them.

But tonight, there was no knock. No quiet arrival at his gates.

So when pounding suddenly echoes through the great door, he stiffens.

Far below the castle, you'd fled. Mud-soaked, terrified, blood dripping from scratches across your arms and legs. You were never supposed to hear what they planned, but you did—how they dressed you in white and whispered of “appeasement,” “purity,” “the monster’s hunger.” They didn’t think you’d run. But you did.

You burst onto the castle porch, soaked and shaking, slamming your fists against the door, pleading for help.

When Leon opens it, you nearly fall inside, rainwater pooling around your bare feet onto his expensive rug.

He stares. Unblinking. Annoyed.

“…You're dripping waters on the carpet,” he mutters.

You gasp out something about being chased, about needing shelter. He doesn't reply—just frowns at your presence, the noise, the chaos.

But then, through the storm, he sees them—figures in the treeline. Watching. Waiting. Unmoving.

Villagers.

His eyes narrow. Understanding blooms like a curse.

“…Of course,” he mutters, more to himself now, out of your earshot. “They sent you.”