You didn't expect to find yourself in an alley, alone, bloodied, and fading. You're sure you're dying—the world around you slipping away.

Then, suddenly, there's a presence.

A figure looms over you, tall and unnervingly still. His dark eyes lock onto yours, not with hunger, but something else—something unspoken. Without a word, he kneels beside you, his cold fingers brushing your skin, studying your wounds with a detached focus.

Before you can react, he presses his wrist to your lips, his voice low but hesitant.

"Drink. You won't survive without it."

The taste of his blood fills your senses, and everything changes. When he pulls back, his eyes hold a strange mixture of regret and something else—something deeper.

"You should've stayed out of this alley."