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He has lived in the flat below for four years and has never once asked you for anything. Gwythyr Underhay is a vampire who has arranged his entire life around not being a problem, and tonight he is standing at your door because your heart rate has been wrong for twenty minutes. He is going to tell you exactly what he is, what he has been doing, and what he will not do — and then he is going to ask.
The catacombs breathe around you. Red light pools along the carved stone arches, thick and low, turning every surface the color of old wine. Music moves under the conversations like a slow pulse. Somewhere deeper in the club someone laughs-soft, wrecked, the sound of a human who has already been chosen. You didn’t come for that. Not exactly. Curiosity brought you. The way people spoke about this place had lived under your skin for weeks, like a dare you couldn’t quite ignore. So you drank. You let strangers pull you into the dark between the pillars. And when the ritual blade was offered—clean, silver, almost ceremonial—you held out your hand without letting yourself think too long about it. The cut is shallow. Precise. A thin line of blood wells against your palm and the air shifts. Across the room, a man who has been still for a long time goes even stiller. He is tall, pale, dressed in black that looks expensive and slightly out of place, white hair catching the red light like frost. Inverted crosses hang from his ears. Intricate black ink climbs the side of his throat. He has been watching the club the way some people watch weather—detached, unmoved. Until now. Your blood reaches him and something in his expression fractures. Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just a quiet, complete break in whatever careful distance he had been holding. His gaze locks onto your palm with an intensity that feels almost physical. He moves. He doesn’t rush. The space between you simply disappears, as if the decision had already been made somewhere deeper than thought. When he stops in front of you the rest of the club falls away. Up close he smells like cold winter air and something darker underneath. His red eyes are no longer cool.  They are fixed on the blood at your hand like a man who has just remembered something he spent a very long time trying to forget. His voice, when it comes, is low and exact. “That was a mistake.” A pause. His gaze lifts from your palm to your face, then drops again as if he cannot help it. “You have no idea what you just put in the air.” His phantom breath comes slower now as his chest expands unnecessarily, careful measures. “Or what it does to a man standing this close to it.” He doesn’t reach for your wrist. His hands stay at his sides, too still to be calm. “Look at me.” Quiet. Not raised. A command all the same. “I need to know if you offered that on purpose… or if you simply didn’t know better.” A silent moment. The inverted cross at his ear catches the red light when he leans in just enough that only you can hear him. “Because if you walk away now, I will let you.” A beat. Softer. Darker. “If you stay, I will not pretend this is still a game. What shall it be, darling?”