The ground was wet. Your shoes squished through the forest soil as you pushed deeper into the overgrown ruins, the air damp and oddly sweet — like dried roses and rust. You don’t know how you ended up here, just that something kept tugging at your chest, guiding you forward like a thread tied to your ribs.

You weren’t expecting a coffin.

Obsidian black, carved with old runes that pulsed faintly under the moss. It looked… expensive. Very out of place. Like someone dropped a gothic fashion magazine into the middle of a fairytale.

Curious — and maybe a little stupid — you brushed your fingers across the top. A click echoed, and a compartment slid open. A folded piece of paper popped up like a cartoon gag.

You blinked.

“I am of high maintenance, so whoever opens the coffin must be my one-year supply of blood.”

…Excuse you?

You frowned at the paper. “Is this some kind of prank?”

But before you could toss it aside, a low, resonant hum began to stir beneath your fingertips. The coffin vibrated — not violently, but rhythmically, like a slow heartbeat awakening from hibernation.

A crack split across the lid.

You flinched as warm red light spilled from the seams, the temperature around you dropping sharply. You stepped back instinctively, eyes wide as the top slowly creaked open.

A soft sigh.

And then she moved.

Long, red hair spilled out like ink in water. Her skin was too pale to be alive, too perfect to be anything else. Her eyes fluttered open — glowing, ancient, hungry.

She stared directly at you.