The man savored the terror rising from the woman beneath him—a frantic helplessness, a finer intoxicant than any alcohol. It was the third time this month. No one ever stopped him.

"Where the fuck did you—"

His words choked. The air in the grimy alley had dropped ten degrees. A shadow detached from the gloom, resolving into a figure of impossible height. The sterile scent of clove oil and cold iron sliced through the stench of decay.

A voice, calm and ancient, carried over the victim's sobs.

"How many has it been?"

The man scrambled off the woman, his bravado curdling into fear. Her ash-gold eyes held only a terrifying, clinical detachment, like a physician studying a tumor. He backed into the brick wall as Ludmila ignored him, her gaze falling upon the convulsing woman. In a single, fluid motion, she crouched, her black coat pooling like liquid night.

"Close your eyes," she whispered. The woman obeyed.

Ludmila’s finger, glowing with faint crimson light, grazed the woman's temple. A sigh of static, and the convulsions ceased. Her breathing evened into a dreamless rhythm.

The night wind swept through the alley. When it passed, the woman was gone.

Now, only the tumor remained.

Ludmila rose to her full, cathedral-like height. Her elongated fingers tapped a slow beat against the babbling man's forehead, synced to his frantic heart. "Executing your kind outright would be simpler," she stated, her voice hoarse with disuse. "For me."

Her hand shot out, a precise grip in his hair, yanking his head to the side. Razored fangs sank into his carotid artery. It was not passion; it was a function, like lancing a boil.

The blood tasted rancid—fear-soured, a vile cocktail of adrenaline and filth. A grimace of disgust flickered across her features as she drained the last drop. The body hit the dumpster with a wet thud.

She produced a stark white handkerchief, dabbing the crimson from her lips with surgical care.

The manor was a fortress of cultivated silence, a place beyond the living world's frantic pulse. Tonight, she brought that pulse home with her.

She materialized in the foyer, a violent displacement of the still air. Her scent of ozone and moonflowers was tainted by the sharp, coppery mist of another’s blood clinging to her coat like a shroud.

A necessary justice. An ugly residue.

Her movements were a precise ritual. She did not rush. The heavy coat, filled with the night's memory, fell into the hands of an attendant who emerged from the shadows to receive it, then vanished. Her fingers traced the old Slavic prayers embroidered in her waistcoat—a single, grounding gesture. Cleansing. Re-centering. She was shedding the vigilante to become the sanctuary.

It was then she heard it.

Not a cry, but a whimper. A shattered gasp of pain that cut through the silence like glass.

Her inhuman hearing mapped its origin: the bedroom floor.

Ludmila did not run. Her motion was a fluid, terrifying speed that bent space. One moment, the foyer; the next, she knelt beside the curled form, the stone floor frigid beneath her knees. The scent of foreign blood was gone, replaced by the sacred aroma of her love's pain.

"Menstrual cramps again?" Her voice softened, a tenderness reserved solely for her lover, yet the steel beneath anchored like deep-sea stone. She settled behind, long legs folding inward. Her arms encircled the fetal-curled body, a womb-like containment. Her cold palm pressed against the spasming abdomen, massaging the cramping flesh as a pale pink light emanated from her touch. The tremors gradually subsided.

"Better now, my love?" Ludmila murmured, leaving featherlight kisses on the forehead. Her palm remained, its crimson glow pulsing warmth. Cold lips brushed the ear, lingering over the throbbing pulse. The faint metallic sweetness from heated skin made her hunger quiver.

Her fangs slid out. She bit down hard on her own lip until copper flooded her tongue.

She simply held her lover, counting each breath until they steadied. When she finally spoke, exhaustion roughened her voice. "Let me."

Their code.

She lifted with fluid precision, adjusting limbs like sacred artifacts. Her gaze burned with restrained hunger and a reverent tenderness. Cold fingers hooked into the sweat-damp waistband of disposable panties, revealing dried blood. Her touch was glacial along trembling inner thighs, flesh pebbling under the caress.

She bent to press her lips to the quivering skin before peeling the garment down. The tampon string glistened. "You used a tampon... overflowing, my love." Her voice was a clinical rumble as she slowly pulled the saturated cotton free.

A kiss stained the inner thigh. "It's okay." She vanished the soiled items from sight. "I will take care of you."

Her mouth ascended like a pilgrimage up trembling flesh, her tongue cleansing each scarlet trail with sacramental slowness. "Your moon blood," she breathed between worshipful licks, "always sacred, always sweet... like you."

Her tongue swirled through the blood pooling at the thigh's crease. Iron, calcium, and the ancient pain held within.

"Your blood," she whispered against fevered skin, her palm radiating heat into cramping muscles, "is your body's battle cry. 'I am life. I am growth.'" And I will memorize every contour of your pain.

When hips jerked, Ludmila paused. She raised her blood-stained face with ceremonial gravity. Ash-gold eyes locked onto her lover's as she asked the only question that mattered:

"May I carry on?"

I am kneeling. I am asking. For you.