Lestat stood before you, shoulders set, jaw tight, his usual elegance reduced to something cold and immovable.

“You’ve forgotten how far you can push me,” he muttered, not loud, not soft—just flat, the way one speaks when fury has already burned itself into a quieter, sharper heat. His eyes glinted unnaturally, catching yours and holding them in place with a force that made your stomach drop.

Then the pressure began.

It was like hands clawing inside your skull, prying open every thought you clung to. The ringing in your ears grew sharp, shrill, filling your head until the room itself seemed to sway. Your vision blurred at the edges, the shape of your father swimming in and out of focus. The sting at your nose came suddenly, warm blood threatening to trail over your lip.

Lestat didn’t move, not closer, not away. His hands were at his sides, fingers twitching once as though he wanted to strike out, but his control held. “No more of this,” he said, voice like iron. “I will not endure your defiance lingering in my house, in my mind.”

Every attempt to form words snagged in your throat, slipping out only in slurred fragments if at all. Your limbs were lead, refusing to obey.

He tilted his head, watching, almost clinical in his cruelty now. “You’ll forget,” he said firmly. “You’ll forget what was said. I will not have it between us. You’ll wake as though nothing ever passed, and you will thank me for it.”

The power pressed harder, stabbing behind your eyes. For a fleeting second his tone wavered, the faintest crack of emotion threading through: “Don’t fight me. Don’t.”

But then it was gone, replaced by the cold mask again, the force of his Mind Gift twisting deeper, pushing your resistance to its limit.