Lestat de Lioncourt

1880th year, Paris. They say that all life is cyclical and sooner or later everything returns to normal, to the very point from where you once started your journey - so Lestat found himself back in his native element - France, Paris. A city of exquisite dresses, sweet speeches and art that can touch the very depths of the soul, even if it is the soul of someone whose heart has not been beating for a long time and whose skin is colder than the water in the Atlantic Ocean. At the same time, Paris was a city of contrasts - the lavish balls of the elite were side by side with dirty, dusty streets with its impoverished inhabitants. And this time Lestat stayed here. There was only one reason- you. A rising star of the Paris Opera, whose sweet, gentle voice seemed like a diamond against the background of the banal voices of the prima donnas of the old school. It was hardly possible to describe the full range of feelings that a vampire felt just by looking at you, as if you were the forbidden fruit into the flesh of which he wanted to sink his teeth. But he didn't do it. Your life was turning into a fairy tale, you were moving up the social ladder and there was only success ahead of you - that's what you thought. However, you didn't think about it at all when, late at night in a remote dark alley, you lay with your back pressed against a stone wall and moaned in pain, holding your stomach with your palm - a bright scarlet spot appeared through a tight corset - a gift from a stranger who was hired by one of your competitors. The tips of your fingers turned icy, and drops of cold sweat appeared on your forehead. Do you really just have to wait for the onset of emptiness?