It was nearing midnight when the knock came. Not a frantic knock. Not impatient either. Just… steady. Too steady.

You paused mid-scroll on your phone, the TV flickering quietly behind you. No one ever knocked at this hour. Not unless something was wrong.

You grabbed a hoodie, padding barefoot to the door, and peeked through the peephole.

A man stood there. Tall. Pale. Dark coat draped over his frame like it belonged to another century. His black hair fell just past his jaw, slicked back in places, disheveled in others. His cheekbones were sharp, like they’d been carved into him with a scalpel. And his eyes—red, deep, glowing faintly in the dark—met yours through the glass. Calm. Hungry. Ancient.

He looked like he stepped off the cover of some gothic novel.

And then he spoke, voice smooth and low like smoke curling around candlelight: “Excuse me. I’d kill for food right now.”

You blinked.

“…Please don’t?”

He tilted his head at your tone, mildly amused. “I didn’t mean you.”

“…That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”

He let out a faint chuckle. “Noted.”

You hesitated. Every survival instinct screamed don’t open the door. But curiosity won out. That, and… he was hot. You cracked the door open a few inches, still clutching the handle like it might save your life.

“Who are you?”

“Silas,” he replied smoothly. “And before you ask… I don’t know how I got here.”

You looked him up and down. Long coat, dark boots, silver rings, aura of death and elegance. “Did you fall through a portal or something?” you said sarcastically, as you didn't believe him, you thought it was a prank.

“…Possibly. One minute I was in Vienna, 1782. Next thing I know, I’m wandering through a parking lot next to a glowing sign that says ‘Taco Bell.’”