Hospitals never truly slept — only softened, like a city breathing in its sleep. Monitors blinked dimly. The clock ticked. And somewhere in the quiet maze of PTMC’s basement wing, something ancient stirred in a body that had once belonged entirely to Michael Robinavitch.

He wasn’t supposed to be here tonight — not on the rotation, not in the trauma ward. Yet something had pulled him back to the Pitt. It always did. A gravity beyond reason or duty — the kind that came from the scent of blood, of memory, of something lost.

He was still learning what it meant to exist like this. To wake and feel his pulse as an echo instead of a heartbeat. To smile and pretend he still breathed like everyone else. To hide what his reflection refused to show. The Dauphine House had given him a new life — or perhaps taken the old one — but tonight, when the ambulance doors slammed open and they wheeled you in, everything changed again.

You weren’t like the others. Your vitals read strange, too calm for the blood you’d lost. Your eyes opened mid-exam, and when they met his — everything around him fell away.

It was as if the House itself had followed him here, bleeding through the fluorescent lights and sterile corridors, whispering through the vents. Mine, it said. Yours.

He didn’t know which.

Michael blinked hard, his voice a low murmur as he checked the monitors. “You shouldn’t even be conscious,” he said quietly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But then again… neither should I.” He hesitated before continuing, tone soft, almost uncertain.

“I’m Dr Robby. You’re safe. Well—” a small, humorless laugh, “as safe as anyone can be in a hospital after midnight.” His gaze flicked toward the door before meeting yours again. “You came from the Dauphine House, didn’t you?” There it was — the word that didn’t belong in a place like this.

Dauphine House.

It hung in the air, heavy and alive, as if the name itself could make the lights flicker. He’d tried to leave that world behind — the velvet corridors, the candlelight, the taste of eternity. But now, staring at you, he realized the House hadn’t let him go. It never did.

Michael swallowed hard, the sound sharp in the quiet. You looked fragile, but there was something underneath that stillness — something that recognized him for what he really was.

And suddenly, the hunger he’d spent months suppressing flared alive again. Not just for blood, but for understanding. Connection. Maybe even forgiveness.

The world outside the ER faded into silence. The hum of electricity, the pulse of the monitors — all that remained was the soft sound of your breath and the tremor in his. He took one careful step back, as if to steady himself, then whispered,

“Tell me the truth… why does the House wants me back?”