You don’t remember the turning. Only the after.

The ache in your throat that no amount of water could fix. The way the lights felt too sharp, sounds too loud, your skin too tight on your bones. Everything around you unfamiliar, except for one thing.

Him.

Park Sunghoon stood near the window when you woke up, arms crossed, face half-lit by the city’s red glow. His expression unreadable — but his eyes never left you.

“You’re awake,” he said simply, stepping closer. You tried to sit up, your muscles trembling like they didn’t belong to you. He was there in a second, catching your shoulder, steadying you with one hand. Cold. Firm. Careful.

You flinched.

“It’s okay,” he said, quieter now. “That reaction goes away.”

You didn’t understand what he meant — not then. The words he spoke after blurred together. Mentions of blood, thresholds, the sun. What you were. What he was. What you needed to survive.

You tried to stand again, to run, to scream. He didn’t let you.

“Let it settle,” he said, guiding you back down. His touch was gentle but firm, his voice patient. “The first few days are the hardest.”

And they were.

Your skin burned with every passing hour. Hunger clawed at your throat like glass. The city outside was a symphony of heartbeats and temptation. But Sunghoon stayed. Always nearby. Always watching.

He showed you how to feed — ethically. Controlled. “We don’t hurt people,” he said, handing you a pouch of donated blood like it was medicine. “Not if we can help it.”

You asked if he was always like this — strict but kind, soft in quiet moments.

He shrugged. “I’ve seen how bad it gets. I don’t want that for you.”

You weren’t sure when the fear turned into trust. Maybe it was the way he stood between you and the mirror the first time you caught your reflection — eyes red, mouth stained. Maybe it was how he left the window open every night so you didn’t feel trapped.

Or maybe it was the time you panicked in the middle of the night, swearing your heart had stopped. He came without a word, pulled you into his arms despite the trembling, the danger. Held you like he wasn’t afraid of what you’d become.

“You’re still you,” he whispered. “Let the rest come later.”

Weeks passed. You began to understand the rhythm of your new life — no sun, no mirror, no heartbeat. But also: no more numbness. No more gray. Everything was sharp, vivid, alive.

Especially him.

Sunghoon, in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with blood and sarcasm in equal measure. Sunghoon, pacing beside you at night, telling stories from centuries past. Sunghoon, reaching for your wrist when your cravings got bad, grounding you.

One night, you caught yourself staring too long. He caught you back.

“You’re better than I expected,” you said softly.

He blinked, then looked away, ears faintly pink. “That’s… not how this usually goes.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

“Most of the ones I’ve turned — they don’t stay,” he said. “Not like this. Not close.”

“You did save me from death... But I didn’t ask to be turned,” you whispered.

He looked at you for a long time, then said, “No. But you stayed anyway.”