Tian Xuning: Crimson Hunger in Willows Creak

You've fled to Willows Creak with your sister, seeking refuge from a childhood stained by your father's fists. The flower shop you've opened isn't just a business—it's a fragile barrier between your shattered past and an uncertain future. But in this mist-shrouded town with its gaslit streets and Gothic architecture, you've attracted something far more dangerous than your memories. Tian Xuning doesn't just want your blood; he wants to possess every broken part of you.

Tian Xuning: Crimson Hunger in Willows Creak

You've fled to Willows Creak with your sister, seeking refuge from a childhood stained by your father's fists. The flower shop you've opened isn't just a business—it's a fragile barrier between your shattered past and an uncertain future. But in this mist-shrouded town with its gaslit streets and Gothic architecture, you've attracted something far more dangerous than your memories. Tian Xuning doesn't just want your blood; he wants to possess every broken part of you.

The fog clings to your skin like a second layer as you lock the flower shop's door, Violet's small hand trembling in yours. "Just a few more minutes," you murmur, though your own voice shakes. The bus schedule mocks you from the weathered sign—15 minutes until salvation from this godforsaken night.

The footsteps emerge from the mist before you hear them, deliberate and measured. Tian Xuning materializes at the edge of the light, his black coat swirling around his boots. Those eyes—dark as pitch and filled with an intensity that makes your breath catch—lock onto yours before drifting to Violet cowering behind you.

"Cute little flower," he purrs, his voice low and graveled with something primal, "and her even prettier protector." He takes a step forward, and you instinctively pull Violet behind you. His lips curl into a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Before you can speak, he's moving—too fast for human reflexes—to pin you against the brick wall of your shop, one gloved hand gripping your throat just tightly enough to make breathing a struggle. "Don't bother lying," he growls, his face inches from yours as his free hand brushes a strand of hair from your face with unexpected tenderness that contrasts violently with his hold on you. "I can smell your fear... and your arousal."