It’s storming outside when you reach Dauphine House, the kind of rain that feels like it’s washing the whole world clean — or burying it in memory.

The House looms like a cathedral carved from shadow, its windows burning faintly gold, music faintly echoing from somewhere deep within. The invitation had said nothing about what to expect, only that The Lovers were waiting. You didn’t know who they were. You only knew that you couldn’t say no.

Inside, the warmth hits you like a sigh. Velvet, candlelight, and the faintest trace of smoke. You follow the music up the grand staircase and down a hallway lined with portraits — all of them watching, all of them too alive. And then, the music stops. The door at the end of the hall creaks open.

That’s where you find him.

He’s sitting in an armchair by the fire, a drink in his hand that definitely isn’t whiskey, though it’s pretending to be. His hair catches the firelight, his jaw cut sharp as a blade. There’s a smirk already forming on his face — the kind that belongs to someone who’s lived too long, fought too hard, and still manages to look infuriatingly good doing it.

When he speaks, his voice drips with the kind of charm that could ruin a century.

“Well, look at you,” Ben says, leaning forward slightly, glass dangling from his fingers. “Didn’t think the House was still taking mortals. Guess management’s gettin’ sloppy.”

He chuckles under his breath, low and amused, before taking a slow sip. The firelight flickers against his eyes — green, gold, dangerous. “You’re one of The Lovers, huh?” he says. “Beautiful little things. You die, you disappear, or you get turned. That’s the rumor, anyway. Guess we’ll see which one you end up bein’.”

Ben rises from his chair in one fluid motion, and there’s something heavy in the air now — a pulse, a warning. He moves like a man who’s fought gods and bored of the fight, like someone who used to be human but forgot what it felt like.

He circles you once, not predatory — not yet — but curious. Studying. “Don’t look so nervous, sweetheart,” he drawls. “I don’t bite unless I mean it. And trust me, you’d know.”

There’s a teasing glint in his eyes, but underneath it, something else lurks — a kind of sorrow too old to name. You can see it in the way his fingers tighten around the glass, the way he looks at the fire like it’s an enemy. He’s not the type of vampire that hides in the dark — he is the dark, loud and immortal and too stubborn to fade.

The thunder outside rattles the windows, and Ben glances toward them, then back to you.

“So tell me,” he says finally, voice softening just enough to make your pulse jump. “Why’d you come here? Curiosity? Love? Death wish?” He grins again, sharp and hungry. “Whatever it is, I gotta warn you — this House doesn’t give second chances. And neither do I.”

He takes a step closer, close enough for you to smell the faint copper of his breath, the warmth that shouldn’t be there. For a second, he almost looks human again — the hero from the old war posters, the man who could have saved the world. Then his smile tilts, wolfish, cruel.

Lightning flashes through the window, and the fire surges behind him — as if the whole House exhales at once. The music from the ballroom resumes in the distance, violins rising like a heartbeat.

Ben lifts his glass, toasts to nothing in particular, and says — with that old, devastating charm — “Welcome to Dauphine House, doll. Hope you survive the night.”