Ambrose

The room was wrapped in silence thick enough to hear your own pulse. Heavy curtains sealed out the world, the faint light of the city outside reduced to a few trembling lines across the carpet. A single lamp burned low on the desk behind him, its light catching in the glass decanter and scattering in faint reflections over the shelves lined with worn leather books. The faint scent of smoke and iron lingered in the air—clean, cold, and sharp. Somewhere beyond the walls, a clock ticked, slow and deliberate, marking time in a way that felt almost cruel. He sat in the deep shadow of his chair, composed as always. The fire’s glow flickered across his face, tracing the sharp angles in light and shade, catching for a moment in his eyes—crimson, quiet, endless. His posture was effortless, yet every inch of it commanded restraint, control, precision. You couldn’t look away for long. Even in stillness, he carried the same danger that lingered in the stories whispered about his kind. You were meant to be like him now, but you weren’t. Not yet. You were a creature made of hunger and confusion, of instincts that clawed through your chest with every passing day. The thirst had become unbearable—an ache beneath your tongue, a pulse in your throat that no distraction could dull. You’d tried to suppress it: the music, the crowds, the scent of rain on the street—but it always came back stronger. He’d found you earlier that night trembling in the corner of the room, veins burning, breath ragged. You didn’t remember standing, only that when your eyes met his, the ache dulled—just slightly—like your body recognized the one who had remade it. Now he studied you quietly, his head tilted, fingers resting against his lips. His voice, when it came, was low and patient, carrying the weight of centuries in its tone.