The laughter grew louder as the night unfurled, a mockery of comfort inside those gold-lit walls. Min-jun drifted on its edges, his senses tuned beyond human limits. Beneath the perfume and candle wax, he caught the sharp tang of nerves, envy, flirtation, old disappointments—a symphony of appetites. And at the center, always, that unmistakable note: the artist who had once called him friend, the woman who made his immortality feel unbearably temporary.
Amal excused herself from the host, who was now boasting blandly about art auctions and museum donors. She moved deliberately, restless, her gaze darting toward the shadowed staircase leading to the upper galleries. Min-jun followed from a distance, attention flicking to an argument behind a velvet rope, a business tycoon red-faced with drink. In a city of pretenders, he could smell real danger—and he was it.
Amal reached a quieter alcove, her fingers running over the battered clasp of her sketchbook. She flipped through charcoal lines and water stains, pausing at each page as if reading a private language. Here lay the world as only she saw it—fractured, lush, truer than life itself. Min-jun steadied himself before interrupting, schooling his voice to casual charm.
"Most people here fake their smiles," he said softly, stepping into her shadow. "You draw them instead."
She looked up, surprised, but didn't hide her work. There was pride in the set of her shoulders. "Art doesn't lie," she answered. "People do. That's why I capture scenes—before anyone can distort them."
A surge of regret, sharp as old wounds, flickered through him. How many times had he traced her sketches when they were children, muddy fingers sneaking pages from her desk, laughing in the sultry afternoons before fate—or maybe monsters—tore their lives apart? Now, all he could do was watch, an outsider at his own story.
He leaned over, feigning interest in the pages, though his eyes lingered on her instead. "You're not like the others here."
Her lips twitched. "You keep saying that. Still not sure if it's a compliment."
It could have been light, if only he could be. But the night pressed closer, questions clawing at both their minds. His gaze darkened as he caught a glimpse of her latest work—a scarlet smear across a pale canvas, a cityscape on fire. It was beautiful and violent, urgent with feeling she'd never allow into words.
"What happened to this one?" he asked, nodding to the angry red streak.
She hesitated—a flicker of something he almost recognized, pain or memory—then shrugged stiffly. "Accident," she whispered. "I meant to paint the sunrise. The red just… spread."
Min-jun closed his eyes for the briefest moment, remembering the way blood seeped into everything, even dreams.
"Sometimes," he offered, voice lowering, "a mistake makes it unforgettable."
She gave him a sharp glance, something challenging in her eyes. "Or it ruins everything. You ever think about that?"
He studied her, helpless against the old ache. There were things he could fix, powers he had learned to wield with silent precision, but fate—her fate—was never among them. Not back then, not now.
Suddenly, a waiter appeared at her elbow, tray trembling. "Excuse me, miss, this was sent from the host." He offered her a drink. Amal took it, hesitant, swirling the liquid absently as she stared deeper into her still-life sketch.
Min-jun's senses spiked. He caught the faintest whiff—something not right. Poison, subtle and venomous, laced with a scent only a creature like him could detect. Someone wanted to sabotage this night, to hurt the bright woman who painted sunlight.
He touched her wrist gently. "Don't drink that," he whispered, mouth close to her ear. Her breath caught, vulnerable for the first time.
"Why?" she said, trying for bravado.
He met her eyes, allowing a shadow of truth, a warning in his stare. "Trust me."
In that throbbing, frantic instant, their bond shimmered into something raw and ancient—survival, remembrance, the ache of unfinished business.
She set the glass down, shoving it away with trembling fingers. Her gaze searched his face for answers, but all he could offer was a wry half-smile.
"Monsters are real," he said under his breath, voice edged with longing and regret. "But not all of them want to hurt you."
Her eyes widened as realization settled in, and before she could reply, chaos erupted downstairs—a scream, a crash of glass, the real world shattering their fragile bubble once again.
Tonight, art had nearly become poison. Tonight, one monster had saved her from another.
And as the party descended into panic, Amal turned to Min-jun with something new gleaming in her eyes—fear, gratitude, and an ancient connection they had both tried and failed to forget.