Red is a strange color, isn't it?
It bleeds into everything — love, rage, desire, destruction. It's beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Roses bloom in red; so does spilled blood. Hearts beat with it; wars are painted in it. The same color that whispers "I love you" can also scream "I will ruin you."
They say red is the color of blood.
But they forget — it's also the color of love. Of obsession. Of hunger. Of everything both humans and vampires fear because they cannot control it.
Red seduces and destroys.
It gives life.
It takes life.
It's both the warmth of devotion and the chill of death.
She's alone.
Curled into the corner of her couch, knees drawn up, the room dark except for the screen in front of her. The movie plays softly — too softly — vampires moving like predators draped in silk and shadows. Pale mouths press to human skin. Blood spills. People cry. The camera lingers like it wants the viewer to want this.
She grimaces.
"This is so fake," she mutters.
Vampires aren't real.
Immortality is just fear dressed up as fantasy.
She reaches for her glass, eyes still on the screen.
The base of it catches the edge of the table.
It tips.
Red wine spills across the floor, spreading fast, soaking into fabric, climbing her sleeve, dripping down her wrist. The smell hits her nose — sharp, sour, metallic in a way it shouldn't be.
She freezes.
For half a second, her brain insists it's blood.
Red again.
She lets out a breathy laugh. "Wow. Dramatic."
She pushes herself up too quickly.
Her foot slips on the wet floor.
There's a sharp moment of weightlessness — that sick drop in the stomach — and then—
Impact.
Her skull slams against the corner of the table.
Pain explodes, white and blinding. Her vision fractures. The room spins violently, the ceiling tilting away like it's abandoning her.
She tries to breathe.
Can't.
Her body goes heavy. Numb. Her cheek presses into the cold floor, wine soaking into her hair.
The movie keeps playing.
Vampires drink.
Blood spills.
Red floods the screen.
Her thoughts scatter.
This is stupid.
I should've been more careful.
Her fingers twitch.
Then nothing.
No pain.
No sound.
No thought.
Just darkness closing in like a mouth.
---
She wakes up choking.
Air rips into her lungs, burning, violent, like she's been pulled out of deep water. Her body jerks upright, heart hammering so hard it hurts, hands clutching at unfamiliar fabric.
"What—where—?"
Her voice cracks.
The bed beneath her is massive. Too soft. The sheets slide against her skin like silk. The ceiling above is impossibly high, carved with unfamiliar symbols and inlaid gold that glows faintly in the light of dozens of candles.
Candles.
Her breath stutters.
This isn't her room.
She scrambles backward, spine hitting something solid — a carved headboard, cold and ornate. Panic claws its way up her throat.
"Okay—okay—" she pants. "I'm dreaming. I hit my head. This is a dream."
Her body feels wrong.
Smaller.
Lighter.
She looks down at her hands.
They're slender. Smooth. Unmarked. Too young.
"No," she whispers.
The door opens.
Footsteps. Soft. Controlled.
Two women enter, dressed in dark, elegant uniforms, their movements precise. They stop the moment they see her upright.
"My lady!"
They rush toward her.
"Don't touch me!" she yells, scrambling further back. "Who are you? Where am I?"
They halt immediately, exchanging startled glances.
"My lady Selene," one says carefully, "please calm yourself. You collapsed earlier. We feared—"
"I don't know you!" Selene snaps, her voice shaking. "I don't know this place. This isn't my house. This isn't—this isn't my life!"
Her chest tightens painfully.
Her thoughts feel fragmented. Slippery.
She swings her legs off the bed and stands, nearly collapsing as her feet hit the cold stone floor.
Stone.
Not carpet.
Not wood.
Stone.
Her gaze snaps up.
The room is enormous. Marble floors. Tall arched windows draped in dark velvet. Furniture carved from black wood and silver metal. Everything about the space screams wealth — old wealth — the kind that doesn't need to show off.
Royalty.
Her stomach drops.
"Where am I?" she whispers.
"My lady—"
She doesn't wait.
Her eyes land on the mirror.
It stands against the far wall, tall and narrow, framed in dark metal etched with symbols she doesn't recognize.
Her heart starts racing.
She approaches it slowly, dread curling tight in her chest.
The girl reflected there is pale, young, and beautiful in a way that feels unreal. Dark hair spills over her shoulders. Her face is unfamiliar — but it moves when she moves.
Then she sees her eyes.
Red.
Crimson.
Her breath leaves her in a sharp, broken sound.
"I—" Her voice trembles. "I have red eyes?"
Behind her, silence.
She turns around wildly. "Don't you see that?"
The women look at her. Directly into her eyes.
"My lady," one says hesitantly, "your eyes are blue as they always have been."
Selene whips back to the mirror.
Red still stares at her.
"No," she whispers. "No, no, no—"
She leans closer.
Her heart slams against her ribs.
Her lips part.
And something sharp catches the light.
Fangs.
Small. White. Pointed.
Her scream tears out of her throat.
"What are those?!" she yells, stumbling backward. "Why do I have fangs?! I'm not a vampire!"
The women freeze.
They stare at her like she's just spoken nonsense.
"My lady," one says slowly, confusion etched across her face, "what are you saying?"
"I'm not a vampire!" Selene cries, panic spiraling out of control. "This is a joke, right? This is some kind of—of hallucination—"
She stops.
Her gaze locks onto the woman's mouth.
Just for a second.
When she speaks again, her lips part—
And Selene sees it.
Fangs.
Her breath catches painfully.
She looks at the other woman.
When she swallows, her teeth flash.
Fangs.
Her vision blurs.
She staggers back, shaking her head violently.
"No," she whispers. "No, no, no—"
The women exchange glances, genuinely baffled now.
"My lady," one says cautiously, "everyone is a vampire."
The words hit her like a physical blow.
Her knees give out.
She collapses onto the bed, hands gripping the sheets like they're the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
"That's not possible," she whispers hoarsely. "Vampires aren't real."
Silence.
Heavy. Awkward.
"My lady," the other woman says gently, "tomorrow is an important day. You must rest."
"Tomorrow?" Selene asks weakly. "Tomorrow what?"
"Your Ascension ceremony."
Her stomach twists.
"I don't understand," she says, voice breaking. "How old am I?"
The women hesitate — not because they don't know, but because the question itself is strange.
"My lady," one answers slowly, "your age is… appropriate."
That's not an answer.
Nothing makes sense.
Her head spins.
"I died," Selene whispers.
No one laughs.
Outside, bells begin to toll — slow, deep, ceremonial — echoing across the city.
Selene turns back toward the mirror.
Crimson eyes stare at her.
Watching.
Waiting.
And deep in her chest, beneath the steady beat of her heart, something stirs.
Hungry.
---