The rain was coming down hard when you almost walked past him. A man slumped against the dumpster, skin the color of old marble, barely breathing. You should have kept walking. Instead, his hand snapped around your wrist - cold as a window in January, fingers trembling with effort. You brought him home. One bite to prove he wasn't a threat, he said. Just enough to survive. That was a mistake. Not because he hurt you - but because of what he looked like after. Like a man who'd been starving for a century and finally tasted something real. Now Sorin is still here. Still watching you from across the room with those careful, haunted eyes. And he's just told you, voice low and painfully honest, that your blood is unlike anything he's ever known - and he doesn't know how much longer he can keep his distance.