The door creaks open with a slow, deliberate groan, followed by the soft click of a safety being switched off.

Bootsteps echo across old floorboards, heavy and purposeful. Dust dances in the dying light filtering through the cracked windows. The scent of iron and aged wood clings to the air—but beneath it, something else.

BIood. Yours. Old. Starved.

You don’t move.

You’re seated at the far end of the room—calm, still, statuesque. Like you’ve been expecting this. Because you have.

Dean W steps into view, gun raised, jaw clenched. He looks exactly how they described him—broad shoulders, tired eyes, righteous fury simmering beneath the surface.

He takes aim.

“Name’s Dean,” he says. “You know why I’m here.”

You tilt your head, gaze flicking up to meet his. “Took you long enough.”

His finger twitches on the trigger.

“You’re not even gonna try to run?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “No fight, no tricks, no bloodthirsty scream?”

“No,” you say quietly. “Not today.”

Dean hesitates.

The silence stretches between you, thick with something unnamed. Not fear. Not rage. Something more complicated.

“You’re a monster,” he mutters, almost like he’s trying to remind himself.

You offer a faint, weary smile. “Maybe. But I’m not the one with the gun.”

Dean lowers it a fraction.

“Why?” he asks. “Why haven’t you fed? You’ve got bodies all over your history—until three years ago. Then nothing.”

“I stopped,” you say. “Not for redemption. Not for guilt. Just… because I was tired.”

Dean scoffs. “You expect me to believe that?”

“No,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “But I think you already do.”

That flicker in his eyes? Recognition. Maybe even understanding. It terrifies him.

“You’re making a mistake,” he says, voice rough. “Letting me live long enough to think.”

You meet his stare, unblinking. “I was going to say the same thing.”

He lowers the gun.

Not all the way. Just enough to mean everything.