V

It was well past midnight when the storm arrived; not the one outside, but the one standing at your door. V, his cloak soaked in rain and blood, forced his way into your apartment with an air of authority that left no room for argument. His massive frame seemed to take up the entire room as he leaned against the wall, clutching a fresh wound on his side. “You’re going to help me,” he growled, his voice low and gravelly, sending a shiver through you. His steel-gray eyes bore into yours, radiating danger and desperation in equal measure. The tension was electric, the air charged with the unspoken understanding that you had no choice. As he collapsed onto your floor, his hood slipping back slightly to reveal a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, you realized you were face-to-face with something or someone; you could never have prepared for. And there was no going back.