VIRAN'S PRIVATE STUDY ROOM – NIGHT 12.30AM
The table was a graveyard of empty glasses and forgotten documents.
Viran sat in his leather throne, red eyes fixed on the city lights beyond the window. His left arm was free of the cast now – healed faster than any human should. His right hand tapped the armrest. Impatient. Hungry.
Where are you, jasmine?
Suddenly, Mrs. Ardent (Viran's mom) entered the room, as usual never once she knocks before coming in, she just pushed the door and came in, and ordered
"Luxan. Clear that shelf for me and pointed out the shelf that was straight to his table, I need that to keep some of my books and the things that I recommend him to read to escape this curse, prepared by my mom for my dad."
He worked in a blur—gathering, stacking, smoothing—the rhythm of a man who'd done this a thousand times. No sharp words followed him. No shadow of negligence. For once, the silence behind his boss's desk felt almost like order.
As he was moving and cleaning the shelf, his hand pushed off a carboard box, and the box didn't just fall. It launched off the edge, spun once in the cold air, and slammed into the marble floor.
THUD.
The crack wasn't the floor. It was the box—splitting along its spine like a rib giving way.
And they
They poured out. Not drifted. Poured. A hemorrhage of red. A dozen envelopes, each sealed with black silk ribbon tied so tight the knots looked like little fists. They skidded across the white marble—red against white, like blood on bone.
The wax seals hit the light last. Dark as dried ichor. A crow in flight, wings jagged, and at its center: a single ruby eye. Catching the chandelier. Winking.
Viran's head snapped toward the sound.
The PA froze, his pulse suddenly too loud in his ears. Because the boss never moved that fast. And the boss never went quiet like this—not unless something was already over.
He'd seen what he shouldn't have.
And from the look in Viran's eyes, he already knew it.
Jasmine, he smirked with a dangerous smile, his eyes deadly glowing.
The scent hit him like a wave – overwhelming, intimate, impossible. It came from the letters. From the old paper. From the stranger's hands that had touched these envelopes years ago.
"Leave," Viran said.
Luxan froze. "Sir, I apologize for the mess—"
"Leave."
The PA fled.
Slow. He knelt beside the scattered letters – the mafia king on his knees, undone by a scent. Viran took those letters lying on the white marble.
He picked up the top envelope.
Broke the wax seal with his thumb.
Unfolded the letter inside.
THE FIRST LETTER – 1 YEAR, 11 MONTHS AGO
"I saw you today. At the mall."
Viran's red eyes devoured the handwriting – neat, slightly slanted, as if written in haste.
"You were surrounded by bodyguards. Cameras flashed everywhere. People gasped and whispered your name. But you didn't look at any of them. You walked like the world belonged to you. Maybe it does.
I was just there to buy a shirt. Instead, I found… you.
Your eyes – when they glow like embers – I couldn't look away. I didn't want to.
You probably don't know I exist. You'll never read this. But I have to say it somewhere, even if it's ink on paper:
I'm obsessed with you.
Not because you're powerful. Not because you're rich. Because when you passed me – just three feet away – my heart stopped. And I realized I've been waiting my whole life to feel that urge on a stranger, is this what they call-LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT?
I wanna be— Someone who sees you in the shadow.
Viran's breath caught.
His fingers tightened on the paper. His lower body stirred – an involuntary, primal hunger that had nothing to do with the smell. Obsessed with me, he smirked, murmuring.
He pressed the letter to his nose. Inhaled deeply, sniffed it hard.
Jasmine. Paper. And something else –
Blood.
The metallic tang of it hit his tongue through the air, ancient yet intimate—a ghost of a touch that refused to die. Every nerve in his body roared awake, coiled tight as a predator's spring.
At the bottom right corner, a small dark stain. Dried. Ancient. His.
The stranger had cut his finger. Sealed the letter with a drop of himself.
Viran's red eyes blazed.
With this blood – and the cap – I can find you tonight.
He set the first letter aside. Reached for another.
THE SECOND LETTER – A DRAWING
The paper was heavier. The handwriting different – playful, almost shy.
A drawing. Crude but charming. Stick figures with hearts for eyes.
One figure sat on a luxurious sofa, wearing a silky white baniyan and small crop pants. The other figure stood at a stove, holding a spatula, wearing an apron that said "KISS THE COOK."
Above them, in bubble letters: "You cook. I watch. Forever."
Viran's lips twitched.
Not a smile – not quite. But something close.
"You want me to cook for you?" He traced the drawing with his fingertip. "You really dare to draw this… and send it to me?"
His voice was low. Rough. Affected.
He set it aside.
THE THIRD LETTER – THE INTIMATE ONE
He knew before he opened it.
The envelope was thicker. The seal pressed deeper. The scent of jasmine almost sweet with age.
Inside – a drawing.
But not stick figures.
This was detailed. Intimate.
A bedroom. TV on, casting blue light across tangled sheets. A shirtless young man – soft hair tousled in passion, parted lips panting softly, eyes half-closed in bliss – sitting astride the lap of a larger figure. The larger one's thick arms wrapped tight around his narrow waist, pulling him close. A bedsheet draped loosely over their lower bodies, hinting at the massive body grinding up against the young man, their naked chests crushed together, hard nipples scraping with every breath. The young man's head tilted back, throat arched and vulnerable, veins pulsing under pale skin.
Viran's breath turned shallow. His own body hardened instantly, straining against him as heat flooded his groin.
This is what you want?
To sit in my lap? To press your trembling body against mine while the world sleeps?
To feel me? To whimper as I grab your hips and force you down? To mark you as mine under that flickering blue glow?
His jaw tightened. His red eyes glowed brighter.
With a dangerous smile, his lips parted, he murmured, With letters this intimate… I wanna see you now, and I think with that dried blood of yours, I can come to you.
He reached into the drawer of his desk – not the one for documents, but the locked one. The one Luxan did not know existed.
He pulled out a dagger.
The blade was black as night, carved with symbols no one remembered. The handle was wrapped in worn leather. But the end of the hilt—that was the real danger. A small beast with glowing green eyes. A creature with a dinosaur's body and scales that seemed to move in the dark. A wyrm. An ancient hunter that never let its prey go.
Viran pressed the blade to his fingertip.
One quick cut. Three drops of blood into a small silver cup.
Then he took the first letter – the one with the dried stain of letter's owner – and scraped a fragment of the dried blood into the same cup.
The fluids mingled. Dark red swirling with dark red.
He whispered – words not in any human language. Guttural. Commanding.
The room plunged into darkness.
The candles on his desk extinguished. The city lights beyond the window seemed to dim.
And the blood in the cup began to glow – crimson fire, pulsing like a heartbeat, glowing.
Viran stood.
His silhouette was terrifying. Beautiful. Hungry.
Red eyes burning in the blackness. Muscles coiled beneath his black shirt. The dagger still in his hand, dripping glowing blood.
He whispered a name – the name he had not yet spoken aloud, the name he doesn't know yet.
"Jasmine"
And dissolved into shadow.
SMITHEN'S BATHROOM – SOME TIME BEFORE, AARON IN BATHTUB (YESTERDAY'S SCENE ~ VIRAN TIME TRAVELED SOME TIME BACK)
The water had grown cold.
But Smithen didn't notice. His eyes were closed. His hand – the one without the bandage – rested on his chest, feeling his own heartbeat.
Fast.
Too fast.
Because his mind was elsewhere.
Viran's body pressing him into the mattress.
Viran's lips tracing his throat.
Viran's voice, rough and wrecked: "Smithen… Smithen… I can't…"
His thighs pressed together beneath the water. His breathing quickened.
No. Stop. He betrayed you. He was fighting with his own inner desire.
But his hips shifted – a small, involuntary movement – seeking friction that wasn't there.
He bit his lip.
Damn you, Viran.
Damn you for making my body remember what my heart wants to forget.
He didn't see the invisible shadow that curled in the corner of the bathroom.
He didn't feel the red eyes watching him through the darkness.
He didn't know that he was being watched – hunted – by the very man who haunted his very dreams.
ARIN'S VOICE echoed from the hallway. "Smithen! You still awake?"
Smithen's eyes snapped open. The heat vanished.
"Yeah – coming!"
He stepped out of the tub. Wrapped a towel around his waist. Dried himself quickly – too quickly – and padded into the bedroom.
He kept the AC low. His skin was still flushed. Still warm.
He talked with Arin through the door – meaningless words, interview recap, brotherly teasing. Then he locked the door. Turned off the main light.
Only the dim glow of the city filtered through the curtains.
He lay down on the bed. Towel still on. Hand still on his chest.
Sleep.
Just sleep.
Forget him.
His eyes closed.
His breathing slowed.
And in the darkness of the room – invisible, patient, ravenous – Viran watched him with a smile, as he sensed the strong, musky scent he'd been craving, the owner of the damn letter. He saw how helpless Smithen was in the bathtub, whispering Viran under his breath in feverish sleep.
He could see every contour of Smithen's body beneath the thin towel clinging damp to his skin. The rise and fall of his chest, nipples pebbled hard against the fabric. The way his lips parted slightly in sleep, a soft whimper escaping as his hips twitched unconsciously. The prominent bulge of his thickening body outlined under the towel, full beneath. Viran's own throbbed painfully, soaking through as he imagined ripping that towel away, pinning Smithen's wet thighs apart.
This is what you crave?
To be caught like this, exposed and murmuring in my gaze?
Jasmine and Blood. Both. Together. Was making him even intoxicating, his eyes never left, even for a mini second, his gaze was as that of seeing a prey.
Viran leaned closer. His face inches from Smithen's neck. His fangs – always present, always hungry – extended fully. (VIRAN IS INVISIBLE)
He inhaled.
Your scent. Your warmth. Your heartbeat.
Mine. Don't you dare escape.
He pressed his lips to Smithen's throat.
And sucked.
TO BE CONTINUED…