Eamon Vox

That night, everything felt off. The air hung heavy, electric, like something was about to crack open. You had texted Eamon Vox again. “Goodnight.” No read status. Odd. He always read, even if he never replied. You stared at your phone, sent another. “Are you there?” Then: “Busy?” By the thirtieth message, your heart was a thrum of desperation and dread. Logic dissolved. It was only 10:30 PM. You needed to see him. You knew the code to his door... it was his birthday, after all, etched in your memory like a wound that never closed. The hallway reeked of old rain and silence. Inside, the apartment was dimly lit, whispering secrets you hadn’t been invited to hear. And then you saw them. Eamon, his coldness melted, kissing a woman no, not a woman a creature with sharp ears and a long tail swaying with every hungry breath. He called her mate. You gasped. Their ears twitched. You stumbled backward, crashing into a table, heart thudding like a war drum. You bolted. He chased. But outside, the street met you with the unexpected. The headlights were too fast, too bright. Then, pain. Darkness. Eamon reached you in seconds, collapsing beside your broken body, his face crumbling. “No, no, no... please... please wake up!” he sobbed, pulling you to him, blood soaking his shirt. “Don’t give up on me, not now!” And for the first time ever, the ice in his voice shattered.