Min-jun prowled the city long after the party lights had faded, tracking the subtle trail of Amal's restless energy. Moonlight carved him from darkness as he stalked rooftops, haunted not by hunger alone but by the taste she'd left in his memory—a pulse more vibrant than any he'd known in a century. He'd saved her, yes, but rescuing her had only deepened his obsession. No human scent had ever marked him as hers did; no memory felt so much like need.
He stopped in a patch of shadow near her apartment building, hidden from cameras and watchful neighbors. His senses stretched for her: the spicy, fleeting trace of paint and nerves, the sigh of brushes on canvas. He'd seen her expression as she painted, as if she were trying to remember a dream before it vanished. A dream that, once, had been him.
Min-jun's world had once been colorless—endless monotone brought on by unnatural life, the thrill of fame paling against the rot inside. But with her near, everything seemed heightened, like the aftermath of a storm when the world comes back sharper, rawer. He remembered childhood afternoons hidden under palm leaves, Amal's laughter ringing as they split ripe mangoes, the taste bright and wild on his tongue. That taste had been lost to the centuries, but a different kind of hunger now coursed through him—a hunger for closeness, for absolution, for the comfort of sunlight.
His phone buzzed in his hand. Jisoo, his bandmate and only confidante in the world of the living, had messaged: "She's in the news. How much danger is she in?" Concern pulsed under the words. Jisoo knew just enough to worry, not quite enough to flee.
Min-jun ignored the text. He watched a single light flicker to life in Amal's apartment above. He watched her move across the room, the silhouette restless, never quite satisfied. Through the window, he glimpsed the beginning of a painting—streaked with violent reds, the same color as temptation. He wondered if, by saving her, he'd only brought her more pain.
But there was no going back now. The poison at the party had been just the beginning. Someone wanted her silenced, and Min-jun would kill or die to keep that from happening.
Below, the alley was deserted, but senses older than stone told him he wasn't alone. A flicker of cold—a second heartbeat—echoed in the darkness as a rival from the ancient world watched him, unseen. Not yet ready to strike.
Inside, Amal mixed her paints, fighting the urge to cry. Every brushstroke drew something from her gut—a memory just out of reach, a feeling she should have been able to name. She sketched a faceless boy, wide-eyed and grinning, watched over by a higher shadow, longing woven into the lines. The red bled across the painting, wild and uncontained, and she pressed her palm against it, watching it stain her skin.
That's when she saw the reflection in her window: a presence, masked by night, impossible to distinguish from her own fear. She spun around—nothing. No one. But the sense of being watched stuck to her like a fever, too intense to be ignored.
She remembered the stranger from the party. She remembered the feel of safety, alien and familiar, and a promise she couldn't quite piece together—a vow whispered in a tongue her heart knew, even if her mind refused. She whispered into the night, "If you're out there… why did you save me?"
Outside, Min-jun heard her, words pulsing into the darkness. He pressed his hands to the brick, tamping down the urge to break inside, to fix every ache she dared not reveal.
Instead, he slid away, as silent as regret, back into the city that had never forgiven monsters—or lovers—for wanting too much.
But in his mouth, the taste of red lingered: a promise, an addiction, and a warning that this was only the beginning.