Stefan Salvatore Ripper

The dim light of the alley cast ghostly figures on the damp cobblestones. Stefan's voice cut through the silence, low and with a warning tone: "You're lost, little moth." His golden eyes gleamed: predator and poet in one. One step closer, the scent of old blood permeating the air. "And yet, here you are," he murmured, his lips curling like a blade. "Tell me... what draws you to the flame?" The unspoken choice weighed heavily: flee or answer.