Liam Thomas stood in the elevator corner with his tie loosened, eyes blurred by whiskey, and the faint taste of defeat clenched along his jaw—as if the echo of Miranda's last slammed door still rang in his head, along with the image of her missing toothbrush on the sink.
Beside him, Kyra—the redhead with provocative curves and coral lips—leaned close. He had met her barely an hour earlier at the bar. Her breasts brushed his arm every time the elevator trembled, yet Liam felt no spark of connection. It was borrowed desire, a synthetic comfort after weeks of shouting and slammed doors.
Across from them, Mason Fraser pressed the button for the 24th floor. Next to him stood Anna Viktorie, still as carved silence, her figure sculpted by the shadows. She barely spoke, yet her presence carried an ancient magnetism. Her skin was porcelain—flawless, moon-pale—and her eyes, hidden beneath strands of pale ash-blonde hair, seemed alive on their own, whispering secrets to the air.
The space around her thickened, chilled, as though she drew the heat from the world by simply existing—a prelude to something inevitable.
Anna turned her head slightly, murmuring words too soft to catch. Each time she whispered, Mason bowed his head as if her breath alone was the finest thing ever to touch him.
In the security booth, guard Ramirez blinked at the black-and-white monitor. Only three figures appeared inside the metal capsule—Mason, Liam, and the redheaded woman. Mason, however, seemed to be kissing thin air, his hands caressing an invisible body. Ramirez snorted.
"Rich boys and their games," he muttered, returning to his crossword.
The elevator doors opened with a low groan, releasing a stream of icy air into the carpeted hallway. Mason stepped out first, holding Anna's pale hand. A faint trace of gardenias drifted through the dim corridor—so cold it burned, a scent too perfect, too inhuman.
Kyra laughed softly, tracing a finger along Liam's neck and whispering something he barely caught—some promise of tender sins between sheets. But his eyes wandered toward the Persian carpets, the half-open door of the apartment ahead. A dull unease pressed at his ribs, an echo ringing beneath his sternum, like metal striking metal. He couldn't name it, but it warned him all the same.
Inside, the air grew heavy, thick with warmth that clashed against the hallway's biting chill. A faint scent of extinguished incense and old leather lingered, as though the place kept the memories of every whisper it had ever heard. Floor lamps threw amber glows across the walls, stretching shadows into long, restless shapes.
In the living room, Mason opened his laptop and played "Tennessee Whiskey"—Chris Stapleton's gravel voice spilling through the speakers like aged bourbon. The slow guitar and velvet organ filled the room, wrapping everything in smoky gold. Mason sank into the sofa, eyelids heavy, the music melting into his bloodstream.
And then she appeared.
Anna Viktorie emerged from the shadows, moving with the song's slow, intoxicating rhythm. Her coat slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. The black dress beneath clung to impossible lines. Her skin, luminous as sculpted marble, seemed carved from night itself. Ash-blonde hair cascaded like a veil of silver ink; her eyes—glacial blue—pulled at him with an ancient gravity. Her lips, crimson as prophecy, promised the end of all things.
Mason swallowed hard. Each breath broke against his ribs like shards of glass. She straddled him, tracing her fingers down his collarbone. For a moment, he felt like his body was an altar, and she, the dark goddess come to claim her worshipper. Desire wrapped around him, yes—but there was something else. A tremor in his chest, a flicker of fear that refused to die.
Her fingertips were cold. Too cold. He laughed, thinking it was only lust.
The guitar moaned, sweet as warm honey, while Stapleton's voice turned the room into an old whiskey bar soaked in shadows. Anna leaned forward, tongue gliding over the pulse in Mason's throat.
He closed his eyes, drunk on the rough timbre that sang, you're as sweet as Tennessee whiskey.
He never saw her pupils bloom into black suns, nor the silvery glint that flared between lips now baring their secret—fangs, long and ivory sharp.
At the far end of the hallway, Kyra pushed Liam onto the guest bed. Her breath smelled of gin and mint. Fingernails wandered down his chest where the shirt hung open.
He kissed her back, clumsily—fighting himself.
So now you'll prove I'm not the only one who cheats, huh? Miranda's voice rang inside his skull.
Kyra's hand slid toward his belt. He caught her wrists. Her breasts pressed against his chest.
"It's… too fast," he muttered. The feeling was hollow, widening instead of filling. Something in him begged for authenticity—something Kyra couldn't give.
He needed air. A beer. A reason to not suffocate in that room smelling of borrowed lust.
Kyra frowned, but he was already slipping out the door.
A rough guitar slide drifted from the living room, Stapleton's voice spilling like old liquor through the dark. Liam didn't switch on the light; the dimness gave him fragile anonymity. The refrigerator's metallic sheen glowed faintly at the end of the room—a lone beacon.
He moved toward it, but his elbow hit a crystal vase.
It shattered.
He caught a shard too late. Pain flared through his left palm as blood welled up in a hot ribbon.
"Damn it," he hissed, clutching his hand.
From the sofa came a wet, low sigh—followed by a sound, slick and obscene, that froze the air.
The song climbed toward its chorus—your love is more than just a dream—as Liam lifted his gaze.
There, in the pool of dim light, he saw her.
Anna Viktorie, kneeling over Mason.
Her black dress rose like a living shadow; his neck hung to one side, split open, glimmering dark red in time with the slow guitar.
She lifted her face—and Liam's world fractured.
Crimson lips, wet with fresh blood.
Blue veins ghosting along her temples.
Eyes once pale now drowned in darkness.
And between those lips—fangs, long as carved Ivory.
The chill began in his fingertips and climbed, fastening itself to his heart.
"Anna…?" he whispered, not sure if that was her true name or a curse.
A tremor ran down his spine. His knees shook. His stomach turned to ice.
He tried to step back, but his body refused.
Her gaze rooted him where he stood—his will stripped bare.
She inhaled. Her chest arched with the scent of his blood. His pulse thundered through the room, an ancient drum calling something buried to rise.
And then, Anna Viktorie smiled.