The room was almost silent, barely disturbed by the irregular ticking of an old ceiling fan. Dim light filtered through the curtains, casting a slow, deep red hue on the walls that made the air feel thick and heavy. Minho loved this time of day, when everything seemed suspended, as if the world was holding its breath just for them.

Han Jisung was already curled up on the leather couch, legs folded beneath him, bare arm extended like an offering. The leather smelled of old sweat and expensive conditioner. Minho approached without a word, setting down the transfusion bag with the slowness of a ritual. He never asked if he was okay. He didn't need to. He could see it in the pale skin stretched tight over prominent knuckles, the faint tremble in his fingers, the way Jisung's eyes followed him with silent hunger that transcended physical need.

Minho knelt, uncoiling the tubes with clinical precision. His breathing was slower, deeper, betraying his anticipation. He could already feel the electricity under his skin, the tingling behind his eyes, the familiar craving to be emptied. "Are you ready?" he murmured, without looking up from his task. Jisung nodded, almost shyly, but there was nothing innocent between them anymore.

Minho slid the needle into his own vein without flinching. The sharp pain was familiar, almost comforting. He connected the tube to Jisung's arm, watching the blood flow warm and red through the thin transparent line that bound them together. The metallic smell of blood mixed with the faint scent of Jisung's cologne.

Minho felt it instantly: the release, the relief, that raw gratitude that made him want to strangle him as much as kiss him. He hated that weakness and yet, he drank it in like a man dying of thirst.

He slowly straightened, surveying the scene. Jisung was breathing faster, lips slightly parted, eyelids half-closed. He had that expression Minho couldn't bear to see on anyone else: the look of a boy not falling ill, but falling in love.

Minho placed a hand on his throat, feeling the rapid pulse beneath warm, vulnerable skin. "You don't even know what I'm taking when I give you this" he almost growled in a voice thick with dangerous sensuality.

Minho smiled—sadly, cruelly—as he tightened his hand gently around Jisung's throat, not enough to hurt but enough to remind him who held power. "You live because I allow it"—the unspoken message hung heavy in the air.

And Minho, for a moment, felt like God. A God who bleeds.