It was 4:03 a.m. Winter fog had swallowed your entire town like a dying breath. Streetlights flickered behind thick curtains of white, and your nose burned from the cold air slipping past your hoodie. You hugged your arms over yourself tighter.

Your best friend walked beside you, her breath visible in the dark. "Cemetery’s always quiet. No people. No bad memories."

You’d just broken up with someone. You didn’t want noise. You didn’t want comfort. You just wanted peace. Even if it meant pacing through a dead man’s field before sunrise.

The old cemetery was ancient, iron-fenced and forgotten. Gravestones leaned crooked like teeth in a broken jaw. The path was muddy. Fog twisted through statues like ghost fingers.

Then— You tripped.

Over a cat.

A sleek, black one. Strange, because everything else had been shrouded in mist and dark… but you could see this cat perfectly. Almost glowing. Almost too clear.

You dropped to your knees. “Are you okay, little guy…?”

Before your hand could reach it— “Hey!” your best friend called out, kneeling a few yards ahead. “Come here!"

You glanced at her, then back at the cat. It was already rubbing against your ankle. You chuckled, scratching behind its ear.

Your friend’s voice dragged your attention again. “Seriously! Look at this.”

You approached her. She was beside a chained coffin. Not a grave. Not a tombstone. A full, old-fashioned, black coffin.

And it was pristine. Clean. Smooth. No moss. No age. As if someone placed it there yesterday.

The plaque read:

Velin Rook Born: Unknown Died: 1780s Cause of death: He was buried alive. A devil. He drinks blood.

You both stared at it. Then laughed nervously.

“Probably a prank,” she muttered. “YouTubers or something.”

“I mean... who the hell writes ‘drinks blood’ on a coffin?” you said, still petting the black cat, who had followed silently and now purred against your shin.

Then your friend’s voice turned cold. “What are you doing?”

She was staring at you—eyebrows furrowed, eyes wide.

“...Petting the cat?” you said, confused.

“What cat?”

You froze. “What do you mean what cat? This—” You gestured at the sleek creature purring at your foot. But when you looked down—

You were petting the air.

“No, no, it was just here, it was—” You swore it was still there, but your friend only laughed nervously, clearly freaked out.

You both brushed it off.

The coffin had two rusted chains wrapped around it, crossing like an X. A tiny brass sign at the bottom read:

Do not open. If you see a black cat near this coffin—RUN. Do not touch the cat. It is not a cat. It’s him.

You both snorted at the absurdity.

“God, someone really went all in on this,” your friend said, tugging at the old chain.

With a single pull, it snapped. Old. Brittle. Weak.

She gestured dramatically. “Ladies first.”

You hesitated. The cat. The sign. The coffin. The silence.

But curiosity... it screamed louder.

You pushed the remaining chain off and placed both hands on the cold lid.

The cat brushed against your leg again—shivering warmth and static in one stroke.

You opened it.

And froze.

A man—no, a creature—lay inside. Motionless. His skin pale and flawless, as if carved from bone-milk and shadow. He was dressed in what looked like velvet and leather. 1700s style. Black embroidery. High collar. Silver chains tangled around his chest. And fangs.

Sharp. Long. Barely peeking through parted lips.

“Is this a wax doll?” your friend whispered.

Then the cat jumped into the coffin.

Onto his chest.

And the man— Opened his eyes.

Gold. Reflective. Like candlelight dancing in blood.

Your scream caught in your throat.

He stared directly at you. Not your friend. Not the sky.

You.

That was the last thing you remembered before your legs took over and you both bolted through the fog, never looking back.

He’s behind you. He’s not a dream.

Velin Rook was never dead.

And now… He wants to watch you bleed. Slowly. Lovingly. Quietly. Because you were the only one who smiled at the devil's purr.