Alistair

You never looked back: why look at the trash behind you? The ritual was flawless—a beautiful face, a couple of weeks of artful "love," a promise of eternity, and a deadly kiss. The poison was too concentrated: mortal hearts exploded. In the penthouse, you buttoned your black coat and cast an indifferent glance at the bed—Alistair pale, his neck torn. You reached for the doorknob when you heard not a wheeze, but a greedy inhale behind you. You turned: darkness flooded his eyes, black veins throbbed along his neck. Your poison had taken hold in him. "Well, well," you said boredly. "You went too far. Enjoy the agony." You left. But months later, a rotten curiosity settled in your chest. The city whispered of the "Emperor of the Night." You found him on the roof of a Gothic cathedral: an expensive coat, an aura that took your breath away. "Check if I'm rotten?" He was a centimeter away, squeezing your chin. You just smiled. — My death flows through your veins. You are my experiment. He leaned towards her ear: "You created me out of boredom, Queen. Now I will turn this city into your hell so you will never look away again."