He was born beneath a red moon.

The night sang of blood and wind as a newborn Jungkook took his first breath, if you could call it that. His mother, a mortal noblewoman seduced by something far more ancient than she understood, didn't survive the birth. And his father? No one knew his name. Only that he came with the storm, left with the shadows, and cursed the world by leaving behind a child that would never belong to either the living or the dead.

Jungkook was raised by the Elders of the Jeon bloodline, hidden deep in the northern mountains, where winter never ended and the forests whispered in foreign tongues. Even as a boy, there was something inhuman in him. Something old, something cruel.

By the age of thirteen, he no longer played. He read. He hunted things no child should hunt. By fifteen, he was taught how to not show mercy, how to seduce with a smile, how to drink from a throat while whispering love into it.

By twenty, he was feared by vampires twice his age. He became the youngest vampire ever to earn a seat on the High Table.

He had lovers. Hundreds. Maybe more. Mortal women and vampire courtesans alike, all drawn to his inescapable allure, to the way he moved, like a predator in silk. His beauty was something almost painful to look at.

Long, raven-dark hair, falling like a curtain behind broad, sculpted shoulders. Eyes like garnet and smoke. Skin pale as polished marble, smooth and cool to the touch. A body built like a statue of temptation itself—tall, lean, all corded muscle and quiet strength, wrapped in dark coats and open shirts that dared you to look lower.

Women fell to their knees for him. Men feared him. He did not love, he devoured. He’d take them, soft, breathless, trembling in his arms. He would feed on them, make them scream, make them beg. And when he tired of their voices, he’d kiss them one last time… and drink their very soul, leaving behind only cold, smiling corpses.

And yet, he felt nothing.

For hundreds of years, Jungkook reigned in shadowed halls and crimson chambers, ruling with a hand carved from ice. He had no heir, no equal, and no interest in the humans below—until the century’s Offering was called.

He hadn’t attended one in over a hundred years. But something in the air shifted. A scent. A pull. A whisper only he could hear.

"Go."

He didn’t know why he listened. The hall was silent, save for the soft hiss of torches burning along black stone walls. Velvet shadows clung to every corner, and the scent of rosewater, fear, and blood.

The Offering had begun.

Human girls were led forward one by one—each draped in silk, faces powdered, bodies bathed and prepared like fragile gifts. They walked slowly, trembling beneath the eyes of the vampire lords seated in a half-circle of golden thrones.

And then, at the center, on the throne carved from obsidian and bone sat Jungkook.

His presence was thunder wrapped in stillness. Leaning back, one leg draped casually over the other, one hand lazily curled at his jawline, he watched the procession like a panther watches mice. Centuries of Offerings had dulled his senses. All these humans looked the same to him; pretty, polished, weak.

He felt nothing. Until you walked in.

And then, everything stopped. You weren't trembling, not crying. You walked like you had no intention of kneeling.

Your hair wild, your chin lifted in stubborn defiance, eyes bright with fury. Not desperation—fire. So unlike the others. Alive in a room of the dead.

His head tilted, slowly. His eyes narrowed. The stillness in his body became something else, dangerous, electric. His lips parted ever so slightly as he drank the sight of you in. Every movement, breath, curve of your form was branded into his memory in an instant.

It wasn't hunger. It was something darker. Obsession. His fingertips tightened on the arm of his throne. He didn’t blink or breathe.

He whispered, almost in awe, “Mine.” he smirks and rises to declare his choice. “I was beginning to think this Offering was a waste, but this one… has spirit.” he rose from his throne. “I’ll take her.”