"Danaerys…"
The voice was a whisper and an echo at once, curling around her name like smoke.
She stood before a plain black door, the sound of her own breathing loud in the crushing silence. Even the darkness felt alive — thick, pressing in on her from all sides.
"Come in, Danaerys…"
The voice was warm and cold at the same time, pulling at something deep inside her. Every instinct screamed to turn and run, but her feet moved forward as if they belonged to someone else.
Her hand closed around the knob. Cold metal bit into her palm. She turned it.
The door creaked open to a room swallowed in shadows, save for a single shaft of pale light.
It fell upon a long, black box resting in the center — the kind of box that felt older than the air itself.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she stepped closer. Gooseflesh prickled her skin, but she forced her chin high. Confidence was a mask, and it was cracking.
"Unlock it, Danaerys…"
The voice slithered through her thoughts.
She knelt before the box, brushing away layers of dust. Beneath them, a strip of ancient script glinted faintly, carved deep into the lid. Her fingers trembled as she traced the grooves.
She whispered the words aloud. The air seemed to grow heavy, pressing against her lungs.
A deep click sounded within the box — sharp and final.
Before she could recoil, something unseen sliced across her fingertip. Pain flared, hot and sudden.
A droplet of blood formed, trembling for a heartbeat before it fell onto the black wood.
The box shivered.
From within came a sound — not quite a growl, not quite a sigh — hungry and waiting.
Slowly, the lid began to lift, and the darkness inside leaned toward her.
To her shock, the box did not hold jewels or relics.
It held a man.
Not just any man — but a vision carved from perfection.
His skin was pale and flawless, smooth as if untouched by time.
Dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, impossibly long.
Every feature was sharp, symmetrical, almost divine — the kind of beauty that felt dangerous to look at for too long.
Her breath caught. Her fingers twitched with the urge to touch him, to confirm he was real.
It's only a dream… it has to be, she told herself, even as she reached toward his face.
Her fingertips hovered above the curve of his cheek, drifting toward the cascade of long, black hair spilling across the velvet lining of the box. Strands clung together, damp as though from rain… or blood.
His eyes flew open.
She froze.
The irises were the color of fresh-spilled wine — deep, gleaming red, staring straight into her soul.
A chill shot down her spine, but before she could move, he was upon her. His grip was iron, pulling her against him with inhuman speed.
Then came the bite.
White-hot pain seared into her neck as his teeth sank deep. She cried out — the sound torn from her throat — her hands clawing at his shoulders. The world tilted, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Her breath came in ragged gasps as something cold and intoxicating spread through her veins.
Darkness swallowed her.
With a gasp, Daenerys jolted upright. Her chest heaved as if she had been drowning, one hand clutching at her racing heart.
Sweat slicked her skin, her face pale as moonlight.
The taste of fear still clung to her tongue.
But the burning at her neck… that was real.
It was just a dream, she tried to tell herself.
But the room around her felt wrong — the air was too still, too heavy.
Her hand went to her neck.
She froze.
Beneath her fingertips, the skin throbbed with a deep, aching sting. When she pulled her hand away, a faint smear of red glistened on her palm.
A whisper brushed against her ear — low, velvet, and far too close.
"You taste… perfect."
Her head whipped around, but there was no one in the room. Only the shadows shifting in the corners, as though something had just slipped out of sight.
And then she saw it — a single, long black hair lying across her pillow. Wet. Cold.
"It was just a dream," she whispered to herself again and again, as if repeating it could make it true.
The shrill ring of her alarm clock shattered the silence.
She flinched, glancing over.
Past eight.
"Damn it!"
She bolted from the bed, shoving the blankets aside. The weight in her chest hadn't lifted — that strange heaviness still clung to her — but there was no time to think about it.
She stumbled into the bathroom, snatching up her toothbrush and squirting toothpaste in a messy line. The cold tiles under her bare feet made her shiver.
Facing the mirror, she began to brush, her movements quick and impatient. But as the bristles grazed her neck by accident, a sharp, stinging pain made her hiss.
Her reflection froze.
Slowly, she tilted her head to the side.
There it was — two small, perfectly round puncture marks, dark against her skin. The edges were faintly bruised, as if the wound had been made hours ago.
Her stomach dropped.
"No…" she breathed, her voice barely audible.
Her fingers hovered over the marks, dread creeping like ice up her spine.
"It wasn't a dream," she whispered. "It was real."
The world tilted, and suddenly the shadows of her bedroom were gone.
"Hey… what's wrong with you?" Annie Staven's voice cut in, light and teasing. She was already slipping out of her white coat, her ponytail swaying as she moved.
"With what?" Danaerys asked, fastening her ID tag, trying not to sound distracted.
Annie raised a brow. "You look pale. And that scarf? Totally not your usual style." She nodded toward the fabric draped neatly around Danaerys's neck.
Danaerys gave a small shrug, tugging the scarf a little looser. "Just feeling tired, and I thought I'd try something different today."
"Mm-hmm." Annie smirked but didn't press the matter. She handed Danaerys her own doctor's coat. "I covered your afternoon shift, so now you're covering my night shift. Use mine — I know you left yours at home again."
Before Danaerys could respond, Annie was halfway down the corridor.
"Thanks," Danaerys called softly, knowing her friend probably didn't hear her.
She slipped on the coat and picked up her pen and patient round book, a small frown tugging at her lips. Night shifts weren't her favorite, but work was work.
The hospital at night was quieter, calmer — almost peaceful. The usual chatter of the day gave way to the soft hum of machines and the muted footsteps of the few staff still on duty.
"Mrs. Nickel?" Danaerys poked her head into the ward, smiling.
The elderly woman turned from the television, her face lighting up.
"Well, well," Mrs. Nickel said warmly, "look who finally remembered me today."
Danaerys stepped fully into the room, her pen and round book tucked under one arm. "I didn't forget you, Mrs. Nickel. I was just… on a different schedule today."
The older woman waved her off. "Schedule, shmedule. You doctors are all the same — always running around like you're chasing the last bus."
Danaerys chuckled softly. "Guilty."
Mrs. Nickel's eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. "And what's with that scarf? Trying to start a fashion trend in here? Because if you are, I'm going to need one too."
Danaerys adjusted the scarf, a quick, almost subconscious movement. "Just keeping my neck warm," she said lightly.
"Mmh. Hospital's warm enough," Mrs. Nickel said, leaning back against her pillows. "But I won't pry. Yet."
Danaerys took her patient chart from the round book and scanned it quickly. "So, how have you been feeling today? Any dizziness? Headaches?"
"Only when they make me watch those cooking shows," Mrs. Nickel said, jerking her thumb at the TV, which was currently showing a man flambéing something in a pan. "All that butter — I can feel my arteries clogging just looking at it."
Danaerys smiled, jotting a quick note. "I'll make sure to tell the nurses to change the channel for you."
Mrs. Nickel gave her a satisfied nod. "Good girl. Now, be honest — you look tired. You're not working too much, are you?"
Danaerys hesitated just a moment before answering. "Just the usual night shift."
Mrs. Nickel studied her for a beat longer than was comfortable, then smiled again — the kind of smile that said I see more than I'm saying.
Danaerys checked Mrs. Nickel's vitals one last time. Everything was stable. The old woman's soft breathing and steady pulse were reassuring. She chatted quietly with Mrs. Nickel until her eyelids fluttered shut and sleep claimed her.
Gently, Danaerys draped a warm blanket over the frail shoulders, then slipped quietly from the room to tend to the other patients.
When her rounds were done, she returned to the small office she shared with Annie.
With a sigh, she peeled off the scarf she'd been wearing all day. The bite mark beneath it throbbed sharply — a dull, burning pain she'd been silently enduring.
She pulled a small mirror from her desk drawer and examined the mark closely. The skin was still red and tender. Her fingers brushed it lightly, and she winced.
Suddenly, a faint noise came from above — the sharp clatter of glass breaking.
Heart pounding, Danaerys sprang to her feet and hurried toward the VIP wing — the section reserved for anonymous patients.
She moved cautiously from ward to ward, the sterile silence pressing in.
Finally, she arrived at a tall black door — the very same one from her dream.
An eerie chill curled through her veins as she reached out and slowly pushed it open.
Darkness swallowed her. The silence was absolute, thick enough to taste.
She closed the door behind her and swallowed hard.
"Hello? Who's there?" she called out, her voice barely above a whisper.
A sudden, sharp pain stabbed at the bite mark on her neck.
She cried out softly, clutching the tender spot as beads of sweat formed on her forehead.
"It hurts, doesn't it?"
The voice was deep, magnetic, and impossibly close.
It's the same voice from my dream, she realized, her heart hammering.
"Come closer," the voice coaxed, "and the pain will ease."
Despite every warning inside her, she stepped forward.
With each hesitant step, the burning ache eased until it almost vanished.
"Ouch!"
She stumbled backward and hit something solid.
"Don't you have questions?" the voice rumbled from above.
She looked up — he was a giant compared to her, towering like a colossus over a small ant.
"A lot," she stammered, voice barely steady.
Then, suddenly, the lights flickered on.
Danaerys blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting from the dark to the sharp brightness.
When she finally looked up, she felt unworthy to stand beside him.
From where she stood, she saw the perfect angle of his chin, the strong line of his jaw.
Her gaze dropped to his raven-black hair, silky and falling across his face.
And then, his deep brown eyes pierced through her — intense, alive, and impossible to ignore.