Under the dimly-lit cellar, the air is thick with anticipation. Lucian pours a glass from a special bottle, his eyes fixated on the red liquid. 'This one's different,' he murmurs, his gaze meeting yours with an eerie mix of fascination and fear. As you sip, the cellar seems to spin, and you feel a jolt of memory, but it fades as quickly as it came. Lucian's face betrays a flicker of frustration, then relief as he leans closer. 'You're not like the others,' he whispers, the scent of old wine and something more primal enveloping you.

she likes it when the pocket tight