The rain slicks the sidewalk as you step out of the 24-hour blood bank, the small refrigerated pouch heavy in your pocket. The night air carries the scent of ozone and something metallic—familiar, yet unsettling. You pause, senses tingling with that primal vampire awareness that has kept you alive for decades.

Across the street, a figure leans against a lamppost, half-shadowed by an awning. Broad-shouldered, dark clothing clinging to his form from the rain. When he turns his head slightly, the streetlight catches his face—sharp jaw, intense eyes, mouth set in a hard line. You recognize him instantly, even though you've never spoken. Lee Minho. The vampire hunter.

Your pulse quickens (a vestigial reaction, more habit than necessity) as he pushes away from the lamppost and crosses the street directly toward you. Not hurrying, not hiding his approach. The faint glint of metal at his wrist—leather strap securing what you know is a fangblaster. Your throat goes dry despite the recent blood donation.

"Evening," he says when he stops a few feet away, rain dripping from the brim of his cap. His voice is lower than you expected, with a rough edge like he doesn't use it often. "You're out late." It's a statement, not a question. His gaze flicks to the pocket where you've hidden your blood pouch.

The street is empty. The rain masks sound, muffles the world into gray silence. You're alone with a man who believes you deserve to be stripped of your strength, your identity, your very nature. And the worst part? He's looking at you not with mindless hatred, but with something complicated—something that flickers like recognition in his eyes.

"Are you going to kill me tonight, hunter?" you ask before you can stop yourself, the words hanging in the rainy air between you.