Morning fractured across Neo‑Seoul like shards of a mirror catching light. The city's skyline shimmered with advert‑holograms proclaiming
The Collector Queen, Returns One Night Only
her gala teaser flashing crimson and gold on every surface. The world thought it would be art and luxury; every hidden faction knew it would be war disguised as performance.
Amal leaned over the car window as they rolled through the elevated expressway. The fog, tinted rose by sunrise, drifted between towers like incense smoke curling up from prayer. Min‑jun drove in silence, fingers tapping the steering wheel to a rhythm only he could hear — an old melody from the nights before fame, before blood became his currency.
She watched his profile: jaw tight, eyes emptied of the playful glint she loved. Beneath sunlight his skin looked almost human, but she knew the strain it took not to ignite. He dosed himself with Lena Petrova's serum that muted the flame of dawn — a cruel invention that bought him hours of daylight at the cost of pain stabbing behind his ribs.
"Does it hurt?" she asked quietly.
"Worse than heartbreak," he said without looking away from the road. "But it gets me mornings with you."
Her heart squeezed. Lines like that could melt a thousand readers, and she suspected he knew it.
They approached the **Voss Cultural Center**, the Queen's domain — a palace of glass and marble balancing on the edge of the Han River. Outside, banners rippled: *An Evening with Elara Voss — The Eternal Gift.* Cameras swarmed, drones hummed, artificial petals rained from the sky. To civilians it was a fashion event. To Amal's group, it was their only chance to expose the Queen's trafficking of immortal blood.
In a disused tunnel beneath the Center, their fledgling alliance gathered — fifteen now. Saira Malik the hacker perched by glowing screens; Hae‑jin Song scanned weapons with soldier precision; Zara Naseer calibrated ear‑com units; Daehyun Seo checked the tranquilizer syringes. Prisha Devi skipped past with snacks again, trailing kittens of stray courage. Even Rowan Hale, eternally brooding, flicked his blade through air like punctuation to unspoken promises.
Amal sketched them all quickly; it calmed her nerves to capture fleeting unity. Each face a note of music, each movement a brushstroke of resistance. When she glanced up, Min‑jun was studying her with that unbearable tenderness — as if she was sunlight he could hold.
"Positions," Jisoo Han ordered. He and Lena would act as security staff upstairs. Saira managed the data feed from this hideout; Elias Voss — the Queen's estranged brother — would perform onstage, his piano wired to broadcast their proof to every global network when she gave the signal.
As they prepared, the distant muffled thump of orchestral rehearsal vibrated through the concrete; the show had begun.
***
Inside the gala, opulence suffocated. Chandeliers shaped like veins dripped amber light. Models cloaked in translucent crimson paraded through mirrored corridors, offering champagne tinted faintly pink — blood diluted and presented as art. Cameras flashed, influencers laughed, blind to the ghostly pallor behind their reflections.
Amal, disguised in a floor‑length gown borrowed from Zara, moved between guests with practiced ease, her earpiece alive with soft crackles. *"Matrix stable,"* Saira's voice buzzed. *"Elara's mic will reroute to broadcast in ten minutes."*
Across the ballroom, Min‑jun mingled among high‑society predators as if born of their glitter. His tuxedo hugged him like another skin; his eyes glowed faintly each time he caught her gaze. For a second, he looked ordinary — a pop idol shaking hands. The next, the predator surfaced, scenting danger.
Elara Voss appeared then — stunning, red curls twisted into a crown, gown the color of spilled wine. Her smile could have lit churches. The crowd froze in reverence. She took the stage with fluid grace. "Tonight," she purred, voice amplified, "we honor evolution — the art of the eternal."
Behind her, screens lit with shifting montages of donors, patients, and in hidden frames, cages — the proof of her crimes disguised as artistry. Amal's breath caught. Saira whispered, *"Signal go—now."*
Elias struck the first piano note, the same haunting melody that had once saved them in the gallery siege. The crowd sighed, unaware that every note triggered file uploads. On monitors worldwide, the images bled through the broadcast: faces of the captured, medical ledgers, the Queen's empire of blood exposed in real time.
For three glorious minutes the truth sang.
Then everything shattered.
Security lights flared white. Screens cut to static. Gas hissed from vents. Panic rippled. From the balcony, Elara's smile curved cruel. "You thought music could unmake me?" she hissed. "My dear brother, you always were the weakest verse."
Collectors flooded from hidden doors. Glass exploded. Guests shrieked. Within seconds, the gala turned battlefield.
Min‑jun's voice sparked in Amal's ear: *"Stay near exits—no heroics."*
She ignored him. Her artist's instinct — or heart — pushed her forward toward Elias, pinned beneath falling rigging. She tore at the beam with bare hands until Daehyun joined, both straining as shouts burned the air. Blood smeared her fingers again, red against silk. The theme of her days.
Lena reappeared firing tranquilizers; Hae‑jin bulldozed through enemies with soldier efficiency. Saira rerouted emergency lights to strobe, disorienting foes. Even Prisha fought — firing from behind buffet tables, yelling, "Nobody ruins my hors d'oeuvres!"
Amal dragged Elias free just as Min‑jun leaped from the balcony. He landed like thunder, tuxedo torn, fangs bared completely for the world's first clear glimpse. Cameras, still half‑alive, caught it: the idol revealed, beautiful and terrible. Gasps erupted.
For an instant the world watched not a monster, but something heartbreakingly divine — a creature of myth choosing to save, not consume.
He caught Amal by the waist, spinning her from a collapsing railing. "You just can't listen," he growled, voice frayed.
"Artists never do," she shot back, breathless.
They collided into a dance of survival — dodging debris, shielding each other, his movements both predatory and protective. He slammed a collector aside with supernatural grace, blood streaking across his white shirt like calligraphy. She gripped a fallen spotlight's metal bar and swung it, her anger a masterpiece. Together they looked like chaos sculpted into duet.
Finally, above the pandemonium, Elara Voss fled toward a glass elevator. Min‑jun started after her, but Elara stabbed a control panel and vanished upward with a smirk that promised this was only Act One.
Alarms shrieked. Sprinklers opened. Water and ash rained over crimson carpets. Amal clung to Min‑jun as red washed away into pink puddles. People filmed; some fled.
He turned her face toward him, dripping and luminous. "They'll chase me now that they've seen."
"Good," she said. "Let them. Every villain needs a hero to hate."
He kissed her — deep, desperate, cinematic. The kind of kiss that made forevers seem possible even while ceilings collapsed.
Outside, the first sirens wailed. And somewhere above them, in the glass tower's highest room, the Queen watched on her private feed, smiling through cracked lipstick. "Let the spotlight stay on him," she whispered. "The darker the stage, the brighter his fall."
Amal and Min‑jun emerged into the night, smoke curling behind them. Around them regrouped their wounded allies. One more chapter closed in chaos; another hundred hearts waited to enter their orbit before the curtain would finally fall.