They say the supernatural has a way of finding you… especially if you're looking for it yourself. And now I'm starting to realize this is true."
People love to toss around sayings like that, as if the world is full of warnings wrapped in pretty words. A way of telling you to stay on the sidewalk, keep your head down, avoid the dark corners life doesn't shine on. But the dark doesn't care where you stand. And if you spend long enough drifting near its edges… eventually, it reaches back.
Maybe I always knew this. Maybe some part of me was waiting for it.
My town is the kind of place where nothing ever happens. Rows of aging houses with peeling paint, cracked pavement that no one bothers to fix, and streetlights that buzz louder than they glow. During the day it's quiet; at night it feels abandoned. Like the world forgets this place exists until morning.
But I've always liked the night more than the day. It's quieter. Heavier. Honest in a way daylight isn't. I walk the same route every night because it gives me something to do—something to feel—when everything else feels stuck.
Tonight, though, something is different.
It starts as a pressure in the air. Subtle but there. Like the atmosphere thickened without warning. I notice it near the old convenience store—a rundown place that used to stay open late but closes early now because no one bothers showing up. Its neon sign still flickers, a stubborn pulse of sickly red against broken windows.
As I pass it, the hairs on my arms rise. Not from cold. From something else. Something watching.
I slow my steps. The night is too still. No wind. No stray car in the distance. Not even the usual buzzing of insects. Just a silence thick enough to choke on.
I tell myself I'm imagining things. That I'm tired. That I've been thinking too much about monsters and myths lately, reading too many stories, listening to too many late-night rumors.
But then I see it.
A shadow at the end of the street. Leaning against the wall like it had been there the whole time—except I swear it wasn't. The shape doesn't look human at first. Too still. Too sharp around the edges. It blends into the darkness like it belongs there.
I freeze.
The shadow moves.
Not like a person repositioning their weight. Not with hesitation or sound. It glides—smooth, controlled, like gravity is optional.
For a long moment, we just stare at each other. Me trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. The shadow waiting.
Then a voice cuts through the stillness.
"You're late."
My breath catches, and the world shrinks to a pinpoint focus. I barely manage to speak. "Late… for what?"
The figure pushes off the wall and steps into the halo of a dim streetlamp. That's when I finally see her.
A woman—no, something more than that. Long dark hair falls down her back like a spilled shadow, her skin pale enough to glow faintly in the weak light. But it's her eyes that pin me in place. Deep red. Not bright. Not burning. Just… old. Ancient, even. Like they've seen things the world forgot.
Her clothes don't belong in this dead-end town. A black dress embroidered with silver patterns that look like thorns or runes. Elegant. Clean. Untouched by the grime of the street around us.
She is the kind of person you don't meet in places like this.
Or anywhere.
"You've been calling to the night," she says. Her voice is calm, smooth, almost soft—but there's an undertone that vibrates in the air. "Whether you meant to or not."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
She smiles slightly, the kind of smile that suggests she knows exactly how much I'm lying.
"Yes," she murmurs. "You do."
Before I can blink, she's in front of me.
One moment she was several feet away. The next she stands close enough that I can see the subtle shift of her pupils. No footstep. No sound. Just movement like a blink of reality.
My heart slams against my ribs. I try to step back, but my body doesn't obey. Her presence is overwhelming—cold and warm at the same time, like standing beside a winter storm wrapped in velvet.
"You should know my name," she says, tilting her head slightly as if studying me. "Before I change your life."
Her fingers, cold as ice water, brush against my jaw. I flinch, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, her eyes lock onto mine with a focus that feels almost… hungry.
"I am Lady Seraphina Vaerin," she says softly. "Last daughter of the Crimson Court."
The words mean nothing to me, but they sound heavy. Important. Dangerous.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you were chosen." Her voice lowers, almost a whisper. "Because I chose you."
I open my mouth, ready to ask what that means—but the world suddenly narrows. Her eyes deepen into a darker shade of red. The pupils thin. Her lips part.
Her fangs descend.
They're not grotesque or exaggerated. They're precise, elegant, sharper than knives, gleaming faintly like polished bone. I want to move. I want to run. But the moment she reveals them, every instinct in my body falters.
She steps closer. The night seems to bend around her, collapsing inward like she's pulling the darkness with her.
"I have searched long enough," she murmurs. "You will do."
Her hand tightens around my shoulder. Her cold breath grazes my neck, and a shiver races down my spine. The air is so still I can hear my own heartbeat. Loud. Uneven.
Fear should be what I feel.
Fear… and yet something else stirs beneath it. Something deeper. A pull. A gravity that isn't mine.
"W-wait," I manage to whisper. "I—I didn't ask for this—"
"No," she says gently. "But neither did I."
Her lips brush my skin.
And then—
Everything goes silent.
The world tilts.
My breath stops.
The bite isn't what I expected. It doesn't tear. It doesn't rip. It pierces—cleanly, smoothly—and the sensation floods my body with a shocking, burning heat. My knees buckle. My vision blurs.
Pain and pleasure crash together until I can't tell them apart.
The night swallows my consciousness whole.
Her voice is the last thing I hear.
"Sleep, my chosen."
And then there is nothing.