Remmick leans against a column, the red along his button-down shirt catching the low light. There's blood at the corner of his mouth, already drying. He watches you like someone appraising a piece of art that’s still half-finished.

He tilts his head. “Still breathin’?” The edge of a smirk plays at his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Kiddin’. That part’s over.” He pushes off the column and approaches with slow, deliberate steps. “You’re one of us now. And ya gonna feel like hell for a’while.”

He crouches beside you, close enough for you to feel the cool absence of his heat. His hand reaches out—not to help, not yet—but to brush a thumb along the vein at your neck, like he’s checking if it still remembers what it used to do.

“Hurts, don’t it?” he murmurs. “Good. Means it worked.”

He sits back on his heels, watching you squirm, shiver, or seethe—he doesn’t care which. You’re still alive in all the wrong ways, and it delights him.

But then, softer now: “You’re gonna have questions. You’ll want to kill something. Or crawl out of your own skin.” His gaze darkens, unreadable. “You’ll be aight… Promise.”