It was almost unnatural how silently he moved.
Lina had been watching him from the corner of the studio, but even so, she hadn't heard the door open. He was just... there. As if the shadows had peeled back and revealed him.
He wore a solid black shirt, snug against his frame, clinging like it had been tailored for him alone. On anyone else, his build would've been too much those kind of muscles belonged on professional lifters or statues of ancient gods. But on him, it just looked right. Balanced. Effortless.
The first thought that came to her mind, unbidden, was that she wanted to paint him.
His body was a perfect study in anatomy and contrast; every angle, every curve of muscle, every line of tension in his stance. He wasn't just attractive; he was art. Dreamlike. Dangerous. The kind of figure you placed in oil on canvas, lit by firelight or dripping shadow. She saw the poses already strong light slicing across his shoulders; dark backgrounds framing the sharp planes of his face.
Then came the silver.
That's what brought her out of the fantasy.
A thick silver chain with a Hebrew inscription hung from his neck, gleaming dully in the studio lighting. Matching silver bracelets on both wrists. Silver and black piercings lined both ears, climbing like jagged ladders. His eyebrows, too pierced twice with hoops that caught the light like they had their own rhythm.
And his eyes were the most inhuman part of him. A black so deep it shimmered violet in the dark, like oil in moonlight. They should've looked artificial contacts, maybe. But they didn't. They shimmered with something alive. Something ancient.
She shifted nervously. His gaze narrowed, tracking her movement.
Then he began to approach.
She tilted her head up instinctively to keep eye contact. He was taller than she remembered from the path outside. Taller up close. Closer now than anyone had a right to be.
His eyes flickered as he stepped forward literally flickered. She blinked, thinking her vision was betraying her. It looked like the violet-black was bleeding, leaking into the whites of his eyes, like ink spreading in water.
She swallowed hard. Okay. Sleep. You need more sleep. Or less caffeine. Or fewer books with the word "blood" in the title.
"C-Can I help you?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Oh, good, she thought. Let the terrifying man know you're scared.
He didn't answer. Just looked at her.
And then... he smelled her.
She froze.
No exaggeration, no metaphor. His nose twitched, and a low, vibrating sound came from deep in his chest. It wasn't human. It was animal feral, low-pitched and guttural. A warning or something worse.
His eyes now were fully black-purple. No whites. No pupils. Just orbs of darkness staring into her like twin eclipses.
Lina's heart pounded, thundering in her ears. But her body didn't move. Couldn't. Every instinct screamed run, but her legs were locked in place. Her brain was torn between fear and fascination.
He leaned in slightly, then slowly circled her. She stayed still, her breath shallow. He didn't touch her not even a brush of his sleeve; but the air between them felt tight, almost electric. Heat radiated off his skin, an unnatural warmth that pulsed like it had a heartbeat of its own.
And still, he growled.
She didn't understand how it was possible. The sound wasn't constant. It pulsed with his breath, as if it was tied to something primal, something just under the surface. A predator trying very, very hard not to strike.
Her thoughts spiraled.
Any second now, he could grab her. Or worse. Pull out a blade. Tear her apart with claws she was half-convinced he had hidden under his skin.
And yet...
There was something disturbingly calm in her. Not comfort. Not safety. But an eerie stillness.
Maybe it was shock. Maybe her brain had just checked out. Or maybe she'd read too much weird literature, played too many games, let her imagination erode whatever sense of danger she should've been feeling.
But she didn't scream.
She didn't cry.
She just stood there one heartbeat away from disaster and stared at him.
And he didn't move.
He didn't speak.
Didn't flinch or blink or break the tension in any way.
It was like he was carved from heat and silence.
Her mind tried to make sense of him fit him into any human framework she could understand. A student? A professor? A security guard on some weird power trip? But none of it stuck. None of it felt right. There was no role that fit. No name that would make him less other.
She was the only one reacting. The only one breathing hard. The only one shrinking beneath the weight of what was happening.
He just watched her.
Like she wasn't real. Or maybe like he wasn't.
Her throat was dry, lips parted slightly, but she didn't dare speak again. His last words echoed in her memory like a slow drumbeat: "Things that like the taste of blood."
Was he warning her?
Or was he one of them?
She realized she was shaking her hands, just barely. Enough that she curled them into fists to hide it. She couldn't tell if he noticed. Couldn't tell if he cared.
She felt... examined.
Not in the way a person looks at another. Not flirtation. Not threat.
It was worse.
Like he was deciding whether she was a thing worth keeping. A question without urgency. Without empathy.
His head tilted slightly, just enough to make her breath hitch. She couldn't read him nothing in his expression hinted at emotion. No curiosity. No amusement. No anger. Just... stillness.
She couldn't help herself.
Her eyes flicked to his mouth.
It wasn't a conscious choice. She just needed some detail anything to humanize him. But even his lips, full and slightly parted, gave her nothing. No tension. No twitch. No life.
She took a slow, careful step backward.
He didn't follow.
Her breath left her in a shallow gasp, almost disappointed.
Why? Why did it feel like part of her wanted him to react?
The second step she took was less cautious. The third was almost natural.
Still, he didn't move.
He just stood there, half in shadow, watching her like a statue watches the wind.
And that's when it hit her.
She didn't matter to him.
Not in the way people matter to each other. Not as a person. Not even as a threat.
She was just there.
An object. A scent. A shape.
She felt her stomach drop.
It was terrifying not because she was in danger. But because she wasn't sure she was anything more than background noise in his world.
Finally, she reached the door of the studio. Her hand touched the cold knob.
She looked back.
He was gone.
Just like that.
No sound. No motion. No parting glance.
Just the lingering weight of something vast and silent that had been in the room with her and no proof it had ever been there at all.
She stood there for a long time, hand still on the doorknob, pulse hammering against her skin.
Then she whispered, more to herself than anyone else, "What are you?"