The scent of expensive perfume, floral and sharp, clung to the air like a warning. Min-jun leaned back against the marble-topped bar, gaze half-lidded and predatory, letting the swirl of music and murmured conversation roll over him. Lights glittered along the ceiling, reflected in champagne flutes and silver buttons, but even glamour grew dull sometimes. Especially tonight.
He watched—always watched; that was his job as much as it was his curse. Every pulse, every movement, every flicker of emotion in the crowded hall was a note in a symphony he alone could hear. But tonight, that music was background noise. Tonight was about hunger he had carried—unfed, unsated—for years.
It was a different sort of hunger this time.
He fished out another cube of ice, let it melt on his tongue. He didn't need to drink, didn't even want to, but to blend in you learned to play human. He played better than most. Long before the orchestra gave its second sonata, he'd catalogued the wealth, the secrets, the blood type of every guest, but none of them set his cold heart racing.
Not until she entered.
If sunlight could be painted, she wore it. The yellow silk of her gown glowed at the threshold, a contrast to restless, clever eyes. Amal. Of course it had to be her. The memory of childhood laughter echoed for a split-second—bare feet, mango sap on palms, the smell of wet earth—but memories were fickle things, easily erased, easily denied.
He watched as she breezed past socialites and influencers, her hands absentmindedly smoothing her dress. She was always fidgeting, always dreaming. She did not belong here, not in this world of polished glass and sharp smiles. She caught sight of a painting above the stairs, her movements freezing, breath held like she'd stumbled onto a secret.
He felt the sting inside his chest. Even now, after all these years and all his darkness, she was the only one who made his pulse stutter.
The host—a suitor from some rich family—cornered her by the canapés. Min-jun's hearing sharpened: "It's a Daeheung original. You're an artist, aren't you, Amal?" She hesitated before answering, words measured, smile soft at the edges but never reaching her eyes. Her hands, he noted, had paint beneath the nails.
He moved closer, weaving through the crowd, trailing the scent of blood and memory. She did not recognize him—not yet. Not with the years he'd grown into and the shadows in his gaze.
"You're staring," she said, catching him at last. Her accent was unchanged, her eyes clear and amused.
"Old habit," he replied. "You always did like stealing the spotlight."
She raised an eyebrow. "And you always did like watching. Who are you?"
He could have laughed. He almost did.
She wouldn't remember—not until he wanted her to.
For a moment, time stilled. Hunger warred with longing, with the need to protect. He could kill her. He could claim her. She'd invite death with a smile, and he'd be helpless against her joy. The orchestra reached a crescendo; somewhere, glass broke. The party whirled around them.
And for the first time in centuries, Min-jun let himself step from the shadows, smiling with fangs hidden, heart bared to the only one who ever made him want to be human.
Tonight, it all began—again. And this time, nothing would keep him from her, not even death.