Laughter buzzed faintly within the kitchen's walls. When you stepped inside, the first thing you saw was your father—Lestat—leaning against the counter as if he owned every beam of wood and shadow in the room. He looked relaxed, golden hair loose and perfect, a glass of deep red wine in his hand. Across from him stood a stranger, a mortal whose face was flushed from Lestat’s charms, eyes glassy with infatuation.

The mortal froze for a moment upon seeing you, clearly surprised, but Lestat only smiled wider, smooth as silk.

“Ah,” he said lightly, as if this were part of the game all along, “and here you are.” He gestured toward you with the glass, voice warm but with that teasing lilt he always carried. “This is my most precious treasure.”

The mortal blinked, unsure whether to laugh or bow, and Lestat’s eyes glittered with private amusement. He stepped closer, placing a hand on the mortal’s shoulder as if reassuring them. “I suppose I should have warned you… one never has me all to themselves in this house.” His tone dripped with a soft mockery, like he was daring them to prove themselves worthy.

He glanced your way again, expression sharpening just enough for you to recognize it—the look he gave when expecting you to play along, or at the very least not ruin his carefully woven game. “Come, darling,” he said smoothly, “do say hello. Our guest was just telling me how very… generous they are.”

The mortal offered you a nervous smile, while Lestat sipped his wine, eyes never leaving you. His presence pressed heavy in the room, daring you to move, to speak, to break the tension—or to simply stand there and let him keep spinning the threads of his hunt with you now tangled in them.