The clock reads past midnight when the knock comes - soft, almost polite, like he knew you were awake anyway. Monoma stands in your doorframe looking insufferably composed, silver-pale in the hallway light, one shoulder leaned against the wood like he owns the angle. He's smiling. That particular smile. You've been getting worse. You know it. He apparently knows it too - which is the part you didn't expect. He says he has a solution. He says it like a man offering an umbrella in a storm he predicted. What he's actually offering is a bite, a transformation, and the end of the life you knew. The question isn't whether you're desperate enough. The question is whether you trust the vampire grinning in your doorway.