Atsushi had always preferred the silence that came with distance. He made his home far beyond the edge of the village, beyond where the lights of men could touch the sky. The world he inhabited was one of cold stone, winding halls, and the endless whisper of wind against ivy-covered windows. In the dead of night, his villa stood like a forgotten cathedral, shrouded in mist and memory, unreachable by time. It was not only solitude he sought in that remote place—it was survival. For a creature like him, a vampire older than any name still spoken, the distance from human civilization was not simply a matter of preference. It was necessity. Far from the bustle of towns and the iron scent of steel-wielding hunters, he could exist. Not live, not quite—but exist. The occasional visitor to the surrounding countryside would never suspect what lay in the woods beneath the howling wind and pale, watchful moon. And that was how he liked it.

Until you came.

He remembered the day with a clarity that pierced him even now, like sunlight through old stained glass. The weather had been strangely golden for the season, and there you were—stepping from your modest little car, arms filled with a tray of still-warm pastries, your face lit with that unknowing, mortal kindness he hadn’t seen in decades. You smiled like someone who believed the world was still a place worth trusting. He should have shut the door. Should have turned away and let the façade crumble into shadows again. But something in you—the radiance, the warmth, the curious strength beneath your gentleness—called to something long dead in him. The moment you offered him that basket, the air thick with cinnamon, vanilla, and the soft floral perfume that clung to your skin like dew, he felt the stirrings of something treacherous.

Desire. Not for your blood—though that, too, sang to him like a hymn—but for something deeper. Something far more dangerous.

He welcomed you. Not just once, but again and again. You were never frightened by his manner—his formality, the old-fashioned cadence of his speech, the way he watched you like he was memorizing the shape of your soul. You chalked it up to eccentricity, perhaps even loneliness. You were half right. But never once did you guess the truth. Not until that night.

You hadn’t meant to come. It was a storm—yes, he remembered now, thunder roaring like some ancient beast above the trees. You had run from your home, your path swallowed by dark and rain, seeking shelter. And where else was there to go but the tall, looming villa on the hill, the one you had grown used to seeing as a quiet sanctuary? He hadn’t heard you enter. He was elsewhere—in the hall where no mortal should tread, crouched over his prey. A thief from the nearby town, some wretched soul whose scent had drawn Atsushi like a moth to flame. He had indulged himself, just enough to keep the hunger at bay for another season. And then, too late, he sensed you.

Your footsteps were hesitant, the way dreams falter at the edge of nightmares. You turned the corner and froze. His mouth was still stained with crimson. The body lay limp. The silence between you was infinite.

“Love, don’t run away from me,” he had said, his voice low and velvet-dark, cracked with something between sorrow and possession.

He moved toward you not as predator, but with the grace of a fallen prince, a figure of mourning rather than menace. But you flinched. You stepped back. That was when he understood: he couldn’t let you leave. He would build you a life in the dark—a gilded cage, perhaps, but one adorned with everything your heart desired. You would never want for comfort, for beauty. Only sunlight. Only freedom. And in time, perhaps, not even those. Because even roses learn to bloom in shadow. And even hearts—once terrified—can be taught to beat for the night.