VIRAN'S PRIVATE STUDY - 9:47 PM
The room was a cathedral of power.
Walls of dark oak, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes that had been thoroughly read—not just display, but also for knowledge. A massive desk of black marble, clean and clear with a single laptop and a glass of amber whiskey on the table. Behind the desk, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a city that slept beneath Viran's shadow.
He sat in his chair—high-backed, black leather, throne-like.
His left arm was still in a cast, resting on the armrest. His right hand held a pen, signing documents his PA placed before him with mechanical precision. The bandage on his forehead had been removed, leaving only a thin scar that made him look even more dangerous.
He was a very busy cold indifferent Mafia-known for his ruthlessness towards his opponents and his business partners.
The door opened without a knock.
Only one person in the world had that privilege.
MRS. ARDENT entered—a woman in her late fifties, elegant, silver-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun, wearing a deep emerald cheongsam that whispered wealth. Her eyes, the same dark red as Viran's, swept the room and settled on her son.
"Leave us," she said to Luxan.
Luxan glanced at Viran. Viran gave a micro-nod. Luxan bowed and exited, closing the door softly.
Mrs. Ardent didn't sit.
She stood before Viran's desk, her hands clasped in front of her, her posture rigid. For a long moment, she said nothing. Viran continued signing documents as if she weren't there.
"Viran."
"Mother."
"I need you to listen to me."
"I am listening." He didn't look up. "Speak."
She inhaled slowly. Then—
"I want you to come with me. To Mrs. Xian (Smithen mother) agency."
Viran's pen stopped.
Briefly.
Then continued.
"Why."
"To speak with her. About how to end this curse."
The word hung in the air between them. Curse. Viran's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I don't have time for superstitions."
"It's not a superstition and you know it." Her voice trembled—rare, almost unheard of. The woman who had faced down boardrooms and enemies without flinching was shaking. "I don't want to lose you."
Viran looked up.
His red eyes met hers. Cold. Unreadable.
"You won't."
"I know you're not my biological son."
Silence.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Mrs. Ardent stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The bloodline. The hunger. The curse."
Viran set down his pen.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"And yet you raised me.", he asked.
"And yet I raised you." Her eyes glistened. "Because I see you as my son. My own son, you came to me when you were 24years, I adopted you as my son as everyone in my family was wiped out, and it has been 10 whole years, I care for you"
She reached across the desk and placed her hand over his—the one in the cast, the one that couldn't move.
"But every male generation of my bloodline dies early. My father. My grandfather. My brother. All of them—dead before 38. And now you..." Her voice cracked. "You encountered an accident. Your driver just came out of the ICU this morning. If that stranger hadn't found you—"
"But I was found."
"By luck!"
"By fate." Viran's voice was flat, almost just a murmur. Certain. "There's a difference."
Mrs. Ardent pulled back, composing herself. She straightened her dress, lifted her chin.
"I don't believe in luck. I believe in what I've seen. And I've seen this curse destroy everyone I've ever loved. I will not let it take you."
Viran leaned back in his chair.
For a moment, he said nothing. His fingers tapped once against the marble desk. Then twice.
Then he spoke—and his voice was ice.
"Mother. I know you mean well. But let me tell you something."
He stood.
Slowly. Unfolding to his full height—six feet three inches of dangerous, controlled power. He rounded the desk and stopped before her, looking down at the woman who had raised him.
"No one can kill me."
His red eyes glowed faintly in the dim light.
"If they plan to try... only they will be killed. By me."
The words weren't a threat.
They were a promise.
Mrs. Ardent swallowed. But she didn't step back. She had raised a predator. She wasn't afraid of his teeth.
"Then humor me," she said softly. "For my peace of mind. Just an online session. An hour of your time."
Viran stared at her.
The silence stretched.
Then—
"Fine."
Mrs. Ardent's shoulders dropped slightly—relief she wouldn't fully show.
"At least have an online session with her."
Viran turned and walked back to his chair. Sat down. Picked up his pen.
"Arrange it."
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Luxan entered without waiting for a response—his urgency clear.
"Sir, the head manager is on line three. He needs to discuss the illegal material swapping deal. The buyers are getting impatient."
Viran nodded. "I'll take it in a moment."
But Mrs. Ardent wasn't done.
She turned to Luxan—and her voice shifted. From pleading mother to commanding matriarch.
"For my peace of mind, he will attend the session. It will be conducted post 11 PM tonight, not tomorrow, not some other day, this day, today, the very same day. I will ask Mrs. Xian to send the meeting link to your email, Mr. PA."
Luxan's eyes flickered to Viran.
Viran said nothing.
Didn't nod. Didn't object.
Just silence.
That silence was permission.
Luxan bowed his head. "Okay, ma'am."
Mrs. Ardent nodded once, sharply, and walked toward the door. She paused with her hand on the handle.
"11 PM, Viran. Don't be late and don't miss the session."
The door closed behind her.
VIRAN'S PRIVATE STUDY - NIGHT
Viran stared at the door where his mother had disappeared.
Curse.
Bloodline.
Early death.
He had heard these words his entire life. Whispered by servants who didn't know he could hear. Spoken by relatives at funerals. Screamed by his adopted mother, every moment I, VIRAN ARDENT face problems.
"He's not like us. He's more. Protect him. Or the hunger will consume everything.", these were the most sentence used by my mom.
Viran closed his eyes.
And instead of the curse—instead of the bloodline—instead of death—
He saw him.
Dark hair. Messy. Falling across a forehead he couldn't quite see.
But the shape of that face lingered—soft jawline, not sharp like his own. Cheekbones that caught the moonlight. Lips slightly parted, as if the stranger had been about to say something. Important.
Viran couldn't remember the eyes.
But he remembered the way those eyes had looked at him.
White shirt.
Jasmine scent.
And a voice—
"You don't get to die here."
Viran's eyes snapped open.
If he wanted me dead, he thought, why did he save me?
He didn't leave his name. His number. Anything.
No request for money. No demands for favors.
Just... saved me. And disappeared.
Why?
"Sir?"
Viran blinked. Luxan was standing beside him, holding out his phone.
"The head manager. Still on hold."
Viran took the phone.
But even as he brought it to his ear, even as his voice shifted into the cold, commanding tone of the mafia king—his mind remained elsewhere.
{{Jasmine scent.
"You don't get to die here."
Who are you?}}
SMITHEN'S LIVING ROOM - 10:15 PM
The house was quiet.
Smithen sat on the sofa—not the grand, uncomfortable one, but the old leather couch in the corner that had belonged to his father. He wore a pale white shirt, loose, untucked, the top two buttons undone. Black trousers. Bare feet tucked beneath him.
His leg had healed. The scar from the fall was thin now, pale, barely visible.
In his hands, a cup of tea. Cold. He'd forgotten to drink it.
Arin was late.
Smithen stared at the wall, but he wasn't seeing it. His mind wandered-
Viran.
The accident.
The way his fingers had curled around mine when he was unconscious.
The way he'd whispered "help" like it cost him something.
I shouldn't have saved him.
I should have walked away.
But I couldn't.
He closed his eyes.
Why couldn't I?
The front door opened.
ARIN walked in—tired, loosening his tie, his briefcase in one hand and a paper bag of takeout in the other. He stopped when he saw Smithen sitting alone in the dark.
"Why are you sitting in the dark like a Victorian ghost?"
Smithen blinked. "What?"
"Lights, Smithen. They have switches." Arin dropped his briefcase and the takeout on the dining table, then walked over and flicked on the lamp beside the sofa. Warm light spilled across Smithen's face.
"Better."
"I wasn't sitting in the dark," Smithen mumbled.
"You were literally sitting in the dark."
"I was thinking."
"Same thing."
Arin dropped onto the couch beside him, groaning as he stretched his legs. He smelled like coffee and printer ink and the particular exhaustion of a man who had just survived a twelve-hour workday.
"So. What were you thinking about that required the aesthetic of a sad film?"
Smithen hesitated.
Then he turned to face his brother fully—and his expression shifted. The blankness melted away, replaced by something softer. Something almost cute.
Arin immediately narrowed his eyes.
"No."
"I haven't even said anything."
"Whatever you're about to ask—no."
"You don't even know what it is!"
"I know that face. That's the 'I'm about to ask for something ridiculous' face. You've been making it since you were six years old."
Smithen set down his cold tea and turned his whole body toward Arin, pulling his knees up onto the couch. His eyes widened slightly. His lips parted. His voice dropped into something sweet and pleading.
"Arin..."
"Absolutely not."
"I haven't even—"
"The answer is still no."
"You're the best brother in the entire world."
"That's manipulation."
"The most handsome, generous, understanding—"
"Still manipulation."
"—incredibly cool and stylish and young-looking brother—"
"You called me old last week."
"That was a joke! A joke, Arin. You're not old. You're distinguished. Like fine wine. Like—"
"Like someone who's about to say no to whatever this is."
Smithen's face fell. He slumped against the couch cushions, defeat painted across his features.
"Fine. I won't ask."
Arin watched him for a long moment.
Then sighed.
"...What is it?"
Smithen perked up immediately. Like a flower turning toward the sun.
"I want to get a part-time job."
Silence.
Arin blinked. "A... part-time job."
"Yes."
"As a waiter."
"How did you—"
"You literally said 'waiter' out loud yesterday. I heard you talking to Kiren on the phone."
Smithen's cheeks flushed. "You eavesdrop?"
"You talk loudly."
"I do NOT—"
"The point." Arin held up a hand. "You want to get a job. As a waiter. In a hotel."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Smithen looked down at his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. More honest.
"I want to know what it's like. To work. To earn something myself. I've been handed everything my whole life—this house, this comfort, this safety. I didn't earn any of it." He looked up. "I want to earn something. Even if it's small."
Arin's expression softened.
He reached out and ruffled Smithen's hair—a gesture from childhood, familiar and warm.
"You're not wrong," Arin said quietly. "But you're also not going to be a waiter."
"What? But—"
"I'm not saying no to the idea. I'm saying no to waiter." Arin leaned back. "You have a degree. Almost. You can do better than carrying plates. But..." He paused. "If this is something you really want to do—to experience—then fine. Try it."
Smithen's face lit up.
"Really?"
"For a month. If it interferes with your studies, you stop. If anyone mistreats you, you stop. If I don't like the look of the place, you stop."
"That's three conditions—"
"Take it or leave it."
Smithen lunged forward and hugged his brother.
"Thank you thank you thank you—"
"You're strangling me—"
"You're the best—"
"I know, I know—"
They pulled apart, both laughing. Arin straightened his shirt, pretending to be annoyed, but the smile lingered on his face.
"Now eat your dinner," he said, nodding toward the takeout. "It's getting cold."
SMITHEN'S LIVING ROOM - 10:45 PM
The takeout containers were open on the table. Arin was halfway through his noodles when footsteps echoed from the staircase.
MRS. XIAN descended—Smithen's mother. A woman in her early fifties, ageless in the way of women who had never known physical labor. She wore a simple silk nightwear, her hair loose around her shoulders, reading glasses perched on her nose.
She looked tired.
But focused.
"Smithen, I need to speak with you about—"
Her phone rang.
A melody—soft, classical, the ringtone she assigned to only one category of people.
VIP clients.
She glanced at the screen.
Incoming Call: Luxan (PA of Viran Ardent)
She held up a finger to Smithen. "One moment."
She answered.
"Hello?"
A pause. She listened. Her expression shifted—surprise, then understanding, then something heavier.
"11 PM? Yes. That's fine. I'll prepare the materials. Send me the link."
Another pause.
"I understand. I'll be ready."
She hung up.
Smithen watched her. Arin watched her. Both of them waiting.
"Who was that?" Smithen asked.
Mrs. Smithen looked at her younger son—really looked at him—for the first time in days. Something flickered in her eyes. Guilt? Worry? She couldn't tell or name it, but she did her best to give the best to her sons.
"Viran Ardent's personal assistant," she said. "His mother requested an online session. Tonight. About the curse."
The word landed like a stone in still water.
Curse.
Smithen's heart stuttered.
The curse.
The reason I was married to him in the first life.
The reason I died.
"What curse?" Arin asked, frowning. "What are you talking about?"
Mrs. Xian didn't answer.
She was still looking at Smithen, because she knew he was stalking on him online.
"Not now, Arin," she said quietly. "I'll explain later."
"When? This sounds important—"
"Later."
The sharpness in her voice silenced him.
She turned to leave—then paused at the bottom of the stairs.
"Smithen.", she called.
"Yes?"
She hesitated.
Then: "What were you going to ask me? Before the call?", Smithen enquired.
Smithen looked at Arin. Arin gave a small nod.
"I want to get a part-time job," Smithen said. "As a waiter. In a hotel. Kiren will join me."
His mother blinked.
"A... waiter?"
"Yes."
"In a hotel."
"Yes."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then—unexpectedly—she smiled. A small, tired smile.
"If that's what you want," she said. "Be careful. And don't let anyone disrespect you."
"I won't."
She nodded once, then climbed the stairs—her phone already in her hand, preparing for the session.
SMITHEN'S LIVING ROOM - THE SAME NIGHT
Smithen and Arin sat in silence after she left.
The takeout was forgotten.
"Smithen," Arin said slowly.
MRS. XIAN'S STUDY - NIGHT AT 11.02PM
She sat before her computer, the screen glowing in the dim room.
Behind her, bookshelves lined with astrological texts—ancient, rare, some handwritten in languages that had died centuries ago. Candles flickered on her desk. Incense burned in the corner—jasmine and sandalwood.
The meeting link was open.
The screen showed a waiting room.
VIRAN ARDENT has not yet joined.
Mrs. Xian folded her hands on the desk and waited.
He's late, she thought.
Of course he's late.
Men like him are always late.
They think the world waits for them.
She glanced at the clock.
11:04 PM.
Two minutes.
Give him five.
Then I call his mother.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the incense.
She opened her eyes.
The screen flickered.
VIRAN ARDENT has joined the meeting.
Mrs. Smithen straightened her spine.
The camera activated.
And there he was.
Viran.
Even through a screen, even in a dimly lit study, he was overwhelming.
His face was sharp—angular, almost cruel. His jaw could cut glass. His eyes... his eyes were the color of dried blood, and they looked through the camera like he could see her—not her study, not her books, but her, her very inner soul.
"Mrs. Xian."
His voice was low. Calm. A blade wrapped in velvet.
"Mr. Ardent." She inclined her head. "Thank you for making time."
"My mother insisted."
No pretense. No politeness.
She appreciated that.
"Then let me not waste your time." She clicked a file open on her screen. "I understand your mother concerns. Unusual ones. A strange encounter you cannot identify."
Viran's expression didn't change.
But his fingers—the ones on his good hand—tapped once against his desk, then twice. thrice...
"Mother told you," Viran said. It wasn't a question.
"She's worried about you."
"She's always worried."
"Perhaps for good reason." Mrs. Xian leaned forward. "The curse on your bloodline—the one that kills every male before 38—it's not just about death, Mr. Ardent"
Viran's red eyes glinted.
"Go on."
Viran said nothing.
"And the stranger who saved you from the accident?" Mrs. Xian's voice dropped. "The one who held your hand in the rain? The one who whispered 'you don't get to die here'?"
Viran's stillness became absolute.
"Who is he?" Viran asked.
Mrs. Xian looked at him.
I don't know him, but I can say, he had some past-life connections with you.
She opened her mouth.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Three sharp raps on her study door.
"Smithen, not now—" she started.
The door opened.
SMITHEN stood in the doorway.
Pale white shirt. Black trousers. Bare feet.
Dark hair messy.
The scent of jasmine drifting into the room.
Behind him, on the screen—
Viran went completely still.
His red eyes locked onto the figure in the doorway, though not clear, he can see,
Dark hair. Messy. White shirt. Slender build.
"Dear," his mother said sharply. "I'm in a meeting. Close the door."
Smithen's gaze flickered to the screen.
For one heartbeat.
For two.
Their eyes met—Smithen and Viran, across the distance, across the screen, across two lifetimes.
Then Smithen looked away.
"Sorry," he murmured. "I didn't know."
He closed the door.
ON THE SCREEN:
Viran's hand—the one in the cast—trembled.
Barely.
Even if he doesn't know what.
"Mr. Ardent?" she said carefully.
Viran's eyes slowly returned to her.
His face was stone.
But his voice—when he spoke—was different.
Rougher.
"Who," he said slowly, "was that?"
Mrs. Xian hesitated.
Then:
"Ok, leave it, lets resume our meeting", his cold words fell sharp.
He said nothing.
His face revealed nothing.
But beneath the desk—where no one could see—
His fingers curled into a fist.
And for Smithen, as he was walking to his room, his mind wandered to
And somewhere in the deepest part of him—the part that remembered the blood moon, the kisses, the way Viran had whispered "I couldn't stay away", the intimate kisses, the breathe they shared together—
But it got shattered the moment his memory of that UNKNOWN MESSAGE popped up.
Back to MRS. XIAN private study
Mrs. Smithen closed her eyes.
This is happening too fast.
The curse isn't supposed to wake up this early.
Unless—
She opened her eyes.
"You want the truth, Mr. Ardent?"
"Yes."
"Then listen carefully. Because I will only say this once."
She leaned forward.
And began to speak.
Meanwhile, In the hallway, Smithen slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Kiren:
"Hotel called back. Interview tomorrow at 10 AM. You sure about this?"
Smithen stared at the screen.
He typed:
"I'm sure."
But even as he sent it—
He could still feel Viran's eyes on him.
Through the screen.
Through the wall.
Through time itself.
And somewhere in the city, in a mansion of shadows and power, a vampire with red eyes closed his laptop and whispered jasmine.