The blade reflected Noah's crimson eyes, his own hesitation staring back at him. Fear warred with determination, until at last his trembling grip steadied. This was the only way. He raised the blade, just high enough to graze his skin,
A hand shot out, seizing his wrist.
Startled, Noah shoved back instinctively. The blade slipped, nicking flesh.
A sharp scent filled the air, rusty like iron, warm and thick. The smell of blood.
His fangs ached instantly. His horror doubled when he lifted his gaze and saw whose face hovered inches from his own. It was Atlas who was supposed to be asleep now standing before him, awake.
"I knew something was off," Atlas said, voice maddeningly calm, as though the blood trailing down his arm were nothing more than a nuisance.
Noah's face went pale. "Y– You were asleep! You couldn't— you shouldn't have woken up!" His voice cracked as he backed away, stumbling against the tiled floor.
