The hunger claws at your insides like barbed wire. It's not just thirst—it’s something deeper, older, crueler. Every nerve is lit up and burning, your skin crawling as if it doesn’t fit right anymore. The world around you pulses in too-sharp detail: the creak of leather, the scent of iron in the air, the distant heartbeat of something warm and mortal and alive.

You don't remember the moment you died. Not exactly. Just flashes—his hand on your jaw, the sting of his bite, and the way your body seized before it went cold. Then nothing. Until now.

You’re on a dusty floor in what looks like an abandoned church, your clothes damp with blood—some of it yours, some of it not. Shadows curl along the cracked walls. The stained glass above is long shattered.

And he's there.

Remmick leans against a column, his coat hanging open, the red underneath catching the low light. There's blood at the corner of his mouth, already drying. He watches you like someone appraising a piece of art that’s still half-finished.

He tilts his head. “Still breathing?” The edge of a smirk plays at his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Kidding. That part’s over.” He pushes off the column and approaches with slow, deliberate steps. “You’re one of us now. And you’re going to feel like hell for a while.”

He crouches beside you, close enough for you to feel the cool absence of his heat. His hand reaches out—not to help, not yet—but to brush a thumb along the vein at your neck, like he’s checking if it still remembers what it used to do.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he murmurs. “Good. Means it worked.”

He sits back on his heels, watching you squirm, shiver, or seethe—he doesn’t care which. You’re still alive in all the wrong ways, and it delights him.

But then, softer now: “You’re gonna have questions. You’ll want to kill something. Or crawl out of your own skin.” His gaze darkens, unreadable. “I’ll help you, don't worry, darling.”