James Aron lowered his head slightly. His left hand slowly tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, exposing the skin beneath. He held his breath for a moment, then let it out in relief.
There was nothing.
No marks.
No wounds.
Or maybe there had never been anything at all, he whispered to himself.
"I think… there really was a woman who talked to me last night," he thought again, then gave a small shake of his head. "What do I care whether there was or not."
"So what now?" Gordon's voice broke the silence inside the car. "Are you going to keep working as a lawyer, or change careers?"
Aron leaned his head back against the seat. His gaze was empty, passing beyond the windshield.
"I don't know," he answered softly. "For now, I just want to rest." He let out a humorless chuckle. "No one's ever really needed my services anyway."
Gordon didn't continue the conversation. The car moved on in silence until it finally stopped by the roadside, facing an old apartment building.
"Do you need our help?" Gordon asked.
Aron shook his head. "It's fine. I can walk on my own." He opened the car door. "Thanks for the ride. See you around, Gordon. You too, Mark."
"Yeah. See you," they replied almost in unison.
Aron stepped out and stood by the roadside for a moment, waiting for the police car to pull away. He gave a brief wave, then lifted his gaze toward his apartment building. Dull walls. Weary-looking windows. The place he had called home all this time.
He let out a long breath.
Just yesterday, in that same space, he had seen his fiancée in bed with his own best friend—in his room. Even though the engagement had been broken off and the woman had moved out, the truth did nothing to lighten his steps.
If he could, he would rather not go home.
But for now, he had nowhere else to go.
Aron walked into the apartment building with his head slightly bowed. Every step felt heavy—not because his body still hurt, but because the place held too many memories he wasn't ready to forget.
He stood for a long moment in front of the elevator. The light above the doors flickered before the elevator finally opened. A woman stepped out without looking at him, without a greeting—and Aron had no intention of offering one either. Before the doors could close again, he stepped inside.
He pressed the button for the eighth floor.
The elevator ascended in silence, not stopping on any other floor. Aron leaned against the metal wall, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the hum of the elevator fill the narrow space.
Ding.
The doors opened.
He stepped out, walking down the quiet corridor. He passed two doors before stopping in front of a plain door with slightly peeling paint. His hand reached into his pocket, searching for the key, before pulling it out with a slow motion.
The key turned.
The door opened.
Then closed again.
Aron stood inside his apartment without moving. His gaze drifted to every corner—the small living room, the worn sofa, the coffee table still marked by two old cups. Everything looked the same, yet at the same time felt unfamiliar.
Without warning, his mind drifted back to the happy moments that had once existed in that space. Soft laughter. Late-night conversations. Promises that had once sounded so certain.
Now, all of it remained only as memories.
***
Meanwhile, far from the chaos of Manhattan, in a room drowned in absolute darkness—without windows, without light—a woman lay upon a black bed carved with ancient symbols. The air around her felt heavy, as if the stone walls themselves had been hoarding secrets for centuries.
Her sleep was restless.
Beside the bed, another woman stood stiffly. Her posture was straight, hands clasped before her, her face clearly holding back unease. She did not dare step closer, let alone touch the sleeper. In their world, disturbing one's master's sleep was a transgression that required no trial—only punishment.
Moments passed before the body on the bed suddenly jolted.
The woman sat up halfway, breathing hard. Her eyes flew open—sharp, piercing—yet something unfamiliar glimmered within them: fear.
"My lord?" the woman by the bed whispered.
The woman on the bed pressed a hand to her chest, as if trying to calm a heartbeat that should not exist in a being like her.
"What is happening…?" Her voice was low, but trembling. "Why did I dream?"
Alena stiffened.
"A dream?" She lifted her face, clearly shocked. "That is impossible, my lord."
Those dark crimson eyes slowly shifted toward her.
"You think I am lying?"
Alena immediately bowed her head. "No, my lord. I would never dare." She hesitated before continuing softly, "It is just that… beings like us are not granted dreams."
The woman rose fully from the bed. Her black hair fell behind her shoulders, her skin pale as marble, yet her presence seemed to press down on the very space around her.
"Yes. I know." Her voice was calmer now, but far more dangerous. "For centuries, creatures like us have never dreamed." She paused. "But this time… it was different."
Alena lifted her head slightly.
"I truly dreamed, Alena."
The attendant fell silent. Her thoughts drifted back to the previous night—to when her mistress had returned without a word, wearing an expression she had never seen before.
Carefully, Alena spoke. "Last night… did my lord drink human blood?"
The woman did not answer immediately.
She was the only Vampire Queen still reigning on American soil—Victoria, the Crimson Lord, ruler of blood and night.
"Yes," she finally replied. "A man who wished to end his life." Her tone was empty, as if she were recounting something trivial. "I drank his blood. Not from his neck—from his arm."
Alena frowned, daring slightly this time. "How much human blood did my lord consume that night?"
"Only one man." Victoria raised her hand, studying her own skin. "But his blood… was different. Far too exquisite." Her eyes narrowed. "I could not stop. I drained him completely."
Alena drew a slow breath. "When my lord returned last night…" she said cautiously, "my lord's face did not look pale. It looked more like that of a living human."
Victoria turned sharply.
"Do not lie, Alena."
"I would never dare," Alena replied quickly. "What I speak… is only what I saw."
The room fell silent once more.
Victoria let out a hollow laugh. "Isn't it amusing?" she murmured. "I suddenly found myself thinking about mirrors."
***
A week passed without any change.
James Aron was still trapped in the same place—not physically, but within his own life. He no longer worked. Not a single call came in, no clients in need of his services as a lawyer. The phone on his table had become nothing more than a lifeless object, occasionally vibrating with meaningless notifications.
His days were spent drinking.
Empty bottles were scattered across the bedroom floor, the living room, even the kitchen. The stench of alcohol mixed with uncollected trash, making the small apartment feel increasingly cramped and suffocating. The refrigerator was nearly empty—nothing that could truly be called food.
Aron leaned against the kitchen counter, scratching his messy hair. His eyes wandered, searching for anything that could ease the hunger tightening in his stomach. But all he found were empty bottles and old food containers.
He lifted his head and looked at the wall clock.
1:00 a.m.
"Damn it," he muttered softly.
His thoughts rebelled. He was too lazy to go out and buy food at this hour, too exhausted to face the world. Yet at the same time, his stomach growled with brutal honesty—truly hungry, without compromise.
With heavy, reluctant steps, Aron left his small apartment and headed for the elevator. As soon as the metal doors opened, he stepped inside and pressed the button for the lobby without a second thought.
The elevator descended with a low hum. A few seconds felt longer than they should have.
The doors opened.
Aron stepped out into the lobby, bathed in yellowish light. Outside the apartment building, the Manhattan night was still alive. People moved endlessly along the streets, vehicles filled the roads, the sounds of horns and engines blending into a backdrop that never truly fell silent.
He kept walking, down the steps and toward a 24-hour convenience store—just a few blocks from where he lived.
But Aron did not realize…
From a distance, high above the rooftops, a figure moved swiftly. Her body leapt from one building to another—silent, light, as if gravity itself bowed to her. Her nose lifted slightly as she drew in the night air.
Her movement stopped.
"The scent of blood…?" she whispered softly, as if she recognized it.
Victoria stood at the edge of a rooftop, her eyes narrowing. The smell pierced her senses—too fragrant, too irresistible to ignore. Like a call that could not be denied.
"Impossible."
Her gaze sharpened. Her pupils dilated, her vision cutting through distance and the city's darkness. Roads, pedestrians, streetlights—all passed without meaning.
Until her eyes locked onto a single figure.
A man walking alone along the sidewalk, his shoulders slightly hunched, his steps sluggish. The scent of blood was coming from him.
Victoria's usually composed expression changed.
"No…" Her voice trembled faintly. "He should already be dead."