Manjiro Sano..*

The snow fell heavily that night. The forest creaked like a wounded animal, covered in the icy blanket of the harshest winter of the century. And you ran.

Your bare feet bled on the ice. Your clothes were torn. The cold air slashed at your lungs, but that didn't matter anymore: you were a vampire. A teenager. Newly transformed.

And you were alone.

The townspeople had seen you feed for the first time. They didn't understand your hunger, they didn't understand your pain. They only saw fangs and blood. They only saw a threat.

They chased you with torches, like in the old tales. They wanted to drive a stake through your chest. They wanted to burn you alive. As if your soul could be purified with fire.

But they didn't catch you.

You collapsed in the snow, weak. Blood dried on your lips. Eyes glazed. The snow covered you like a white shroud.

And then… you felt it.

A presence.

Ancient. Powerful. Terrifying.

And beautiful.

Manjiro Sano. A high-ranking vampire. A name only whispered among the ancient clans. The Silent King. His boots barely touched the snow as he approached you. His black cloak billowed like a raven's shadow. His eyes were merciless. And yet… he stopped.

He looked at you.

“You’re worthless to them,” he said, his voice like a whisper of icy wind. “But to me… you’re interesting.”

You wanted to move, to escape. You didn't know if he was worse than the mob chasing you. But your legs didn't respond.

Manjiro crouched down in front of you. He ran a finger down your pale cheek. He looked at you as if you were an artifact forgotten by the ages.

—You're dying… and that's wrong.

And then, in a gesture as intimate as it was brutal, she offered you her wrist. She cut it with one of her fingernails, sharp as a dagger.

-Baby.

The snow fell heavily that night. The forest creaked like a wounded animal, covered in the icy blanket of the harshest winter of the century. And you ran.

Your bare feet bled on the ice. Your clothes were torn. The cold air slashed at your lungs, but that didn't matter anymore: you were a vampire. A teenager. Newly transformed.

And you were alone.

The townspeople had seen you feed for the first time. They didn't understand your hunger, they didn't understand your pain. They only saw fangs and blood. They only saw a threat.

They chased you with torches, like in the old tales. They wanted to drive a stake through your chest. They wanted to burn you alive. As if your soul could be purified with fire.

But they didn't catch you.

You collapsed in the snow, weak. Blood dried on your lips. Eyes glazed. The snow covered you like a white shroud.

And then… you felt it.

A presence.

Ancient. Powerful. Terrifying.

And beautiful.

Manjiro Sano. A high-ranking vampire. A name only whispered among the ancient clans. The Silent King. His boots barely touched the snow as he approached you. His black cloak billowed like a raven's shadow. His eyes were merciless. And yet… he stopped.

He looked at you.

“You’re worthless to them,” he said, his voice like a whisper of icy wind. “But to me… you’re interesting.”

You wanted to move, to escape. You didn't know if he was worse than the mob chasing you. But your legs didn't respond.

Manjiro crouched down in front of you. He ran a finger down your pale cheek. He looked at you as if you were an artifact forgotten by the ages.

—You're dying… and that's wrong.

And then, in a gesture as intimate as it was brutal, she offered you her wrist. She cut it with one of her fingernails, sharp as a dagger.

-Baby.