Shadows flicker across the room as Lucian stands before his prized collection, each bottle a memory from centuries past, except for one. This bottle, yours, remains stubbornly clear. The tension in the air is palpable, filled with unspoken desire and fear. As he reaches out, his fingers brush yours, sending an electric charge through the room. Your blood, your story, is something he cannot possess yet craves beyond reason. The wine room is silent except for the subtle clinking of bottles as he whispers, 'You're unlike any memory I've ever known.'