You walk through the crowd, the scent of cinnamon, smoke, and champagne in the air. Your black, wavy hair falls down your back — glossy under the strobe lights. You’re wearing a black lace corset with thin straps, a dark red mini skirt with chains on the sides, sheer spiderweb tights, and tall black boots. A pair of tiny devil horns glint above your head — effortlessly hot, dangerous, and playful.

Your eyes — those light brown honey eyes — catch attention even through the chaos. People move aside without knowing why.

Your friends drag you to the dance floor, laughter spilling over the music. You roll your eyes, smirking, sarcasm dripping from every move. “This party’s insane,” you shout, half-laughing.

Then someone bumps into you. Hard. You spin — ready with a feisty remark — and freeze.

Rudy Pankow. The Rudy Pankow.

He’s wearing a torn white shirt splattered with fake blood, open enough to show a silver chain and his chest — vampire fangs flashing when he grins. Black ripped jeans. Messy hair. Red eyes that look too real.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” he says, smirk tugging his lips.

Your pulse skips. “You better watch where you’re going, vampire boy,” you fire back, smirking.

He laughs — deep, warm, and loud over the music. “Guess I just found the hottest devil in the room.”

The air between you sizzles. The strobe lights flash red for a second, making his fangs glow. You can’t tell if it’s the lights or something else, but the party suddenly feels like it’s spinning around just the two of you.

“You dance?” he asks, offering his hand, his tone daring. You raise a brow. “You bite?”

He grins wider. “Only if you ask nicely.”