The chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow across the marble floor. Tables draped in white linen stretched across the hall like a sea of snow. Crystal glasses caught the light and threw tiny rainbows against the walls. The air smelled of expensive perfume and fresh flowers and the particular tension that came with serving the wealthy.
Smithen adjusted his burgundy vest for the tenth time. His name tag sat crooked on his chest—SMITHEN – TRAINEE—and his fingers trembled slightly as he straightened it.
First day. Real first day. Not the interview. This.
Beside him, Kiren smoothed his own vest, his usual cocky smile replaced by something closer to nervous determination. "Why do I feel like everyone here can see through me?"
"Because they can," Smithen muttered. "People have a sixth sense for it, and you're asking for it."
Kiren snorted, but the sound was tight.
The VIP section was already filling. Businessmen in thousand-dollar suits. Women in gowns that cost more than Smithen's college tuition. Laughter that didn't quite reach anyone's eyes.
And then—a commotion.
A table near the window. A woman in her fifties, elegant, silver-streaked hair, a silk scarf draped around her neck. She had been laughing a moment ago. Now her face was pale. Her hand clutched her throat.
She collapsed.
Her chair scraped backward. A glass shattered on the floor. The man beside her—her husband, probably—caught her before she hit the ground, but his face was white with panic.
"Help! Someone help! My wife—she's not breathing—"
The other waiters froze. The head waiter stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide.
Smithen didn't think.
He moved.
His legs carried him across the room before his brain caught up. He dropped to his knees beside the woman, his hands already checking her pulse, her airway, her skin.
No rash. No swelling on the lips. But her breathing is shallow—
"What did she eat?" Smithen demanded, his voice sharp, commanding—nothing like the shy trainee from moments ago.
The husband stammered. "The—the shrimp. She had the shrimp cocktail. She's allergic to shellfish but she said she'd be fine—she forgot her EpiPen—"
Shellfish.
Smithen's mind flashed.
"Kiren!" Smithen called over his shoulder. "Get the first aid kit from the service station. The big one. Now."
Kiren ran.
Smithen turned back to the woman. Her eyes were half-closed. Her lips were turning blue.
"Ma'am, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."
A weak pressure on her fingers.
"Good. Stay with me. You're going to be fine."
Kiren returned, shoving the first aid kit into Smithen's hands. Smithen ripped it open, fingers flying through the contents. Bandages. Scissors. Alcohol wipes. Antiseptic cream. And—
There.
A small vial. Liquid antihistamine. The fast-acting kind.
He had read about it. Watched videos after his own allergic reaction. Knew how to administer it in an emergency—even without a needle.
"Help me sit her up," Smithen said.
The husband obeyed. Smithen tilted the woman's head back, opened the vial, and carefully—so carefully—poured the liquid under her tongue. Sublingual. Fastest absorption.
"Keep her upright. Don't let her lie down."
The seconds stretched like hours.
Then—
A cough. A gasp. The woman's eyes opened fully. Her chest rose.
"Margaret!" The husband sobbed, pulling her into his arms.
Smithen sat back on his heels, his heart pounding, his hands shaking.
She's alive.
The other guests had gathered in a loose circle, watching. Some had their phones out. Others were whispering.
And then—
The emergency services arrived. Paramedics swept in, took over, loaded the woman onto a stretcher. The husband shook Smithen's hand with both of his, tears streaming down his face.
"Thank you. Thank you. I don't know your name but thank you—"
"Smithen," he said quietly. "Just Smithen."
The man left. The paramedics left. The crowd began to disperse.
And Smithen felt eyes on him.
He turned.
Not just the crowds, not just those customers, but the unexpected and unwanted, the person he hated most AKANYA stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, her red lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She wore a gown of midnight blue, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder. She looked like a painting. A dangerous one. Atleast to him for now.
"You're the same person from that day," she said. Not a question.
Smithen's jaw tightened. "I don't know what you mean."
"The interview. The one who served me." She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the marble. "You have good instincts. Quick thinking."
"Thank you."
She tilted her head, studying him like a scientist examining a specimen. "You also have a strange scent. Something... old."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said again, his voice flat.
Akanya smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
"Of course you don't."
She turned and walked away, her gown trailing behind her like a shadow.
Kiren appeared at Smithen's elbow, his face pale. "Why does she seem more interested in you? That woman—she's been watching you all the time. First the interview, now this?"
Smithen shook his head. "Don't mind her".
The day had ended. In the locker room, Smithen sat on the bench in front of his locker, his uniform unbuttoned, his undershirt damp with sweat. Kiren had already left—muttering about the incident, about the hotel, about the strange woman who kept staring at Smithen.
But Smithen wasn't thinking about Akanya anymore.
He was thinking about, His hand rose to his ear. His fingers traced the shell—the delicate, whorled ridge where the invisible tongue had licked. The exact place where the whisper had landed, burrowing into his skin like a seed of fire.
"You dare send me those letters?"
The memory of those words—husky, low, scraped raw from the back of a throat—sent a violent shiver cascading down his arms. Goosebumps erupted across his flesh. His ear flushed a deep, painful crimson, the heat spreading down his neck.
And the tingling. God, the tingling.
It hadn't faded. It lived there now, like a ghost living under his skin. A slow, dragging caress that started at his earlobe and pulled a lazy, torturous line down to the hinge of his jaw. He could still feel—not the lips themselves, but the pressure. The wet, scorching imprint of a kiss pressed not just to his mouth, but to that secret, sensitive hollow behind his ear. A place no one had ever touched him.
He could still feel it. The warmth. The phantom pressure.
Was it real?
Or am I going insane?
He closed his eyes. The locker room smelled of detergent and old sweat. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
Viran.
Why are you in my head?
Was that you in my room? Or Am I imagining things?
Why does my body remember you when my mind screams to forget?
He opened his eyes.
Around 3:07am next day morning, In Smithen's room,
The world was silent.
Smithen woke to darkness—not the gentle darkness of sleep, but the sharp, alert darkness of someone who had been pulled from a dream by nothing at all. His eyes opened. His body was still. His breathing was quiet.
He didn't know why he was awake.
But something felt different, his subconscious mind still caught to that night, now it is not just blood moon day, but also the day he was claimed by a phantom on his very bed he has slept from, after his dad's death until now.
He turned his head toward the city lights shining brighter like stars.
The curtains were thin—old linen that his mother had bought years ago. Moonlight pushed through them, silver and bright, too bright for a normal night, atleast to him, everything around him felt heavy.
Smithen sat up slowly. His bare feet touched the cold floor. He walked to view the gasping beauty of moon and the triggering brightness of lights, pulled the curtain aside—just an inch.
Not the soft, distant glow of a normal moon. This was vivid. Alive. The light seemed to pulse, like a heartbeat, like it was looking back at him.
He let the curtain fall.
Turned back to the room.
His desk.
He reached out. Picked up the wolf.
The wood was heavier than it should have been. Dense. Warm. Almost pulsing against his palm, like a second heart beating just beneath the grain. His fingers closed around the carved haunches, and a shiver raced up his forearm—not from cold, but from the toy itself.
He lifted the wolf to his chest, cradling it like something breakable. Something precious. Something that had no right to feel so alive.
How did you come to my house?
The question surfaced again, raw and ragged at the edges of his throat. He didn't speak it aloud. He didn't have to. The wolf's silver eyes caught the moonlight one last time—and then, softly, impossibly, they pulsed. A reply without words.
Smithen's breath hitched. His thumb traced the curve of the wolf's wooden ear, and somewhere behind him, the air grew warm.
Are you the reason I was given a second chance?
His fingers trembled.
Are you the reason I'm alive?
He thought of the little girl. The accident. The way she had pressed the toy into his hands with that strange, knowing smile.
"He's really useful—you can pinch him, scold him, or anything, and he'll always be your shadow."
Your shadow.
His throat tightened.
Is he my shadow?
He touched his lips.
The memory of the invisible kiss. The way the phantom tongue had traced his lower lip. The way the body above him had pressed him into the mattress.
"Didn't you want me to do all this?"
Smithen's chest heaved.
What are these mysterious happenings? Is it realeted to the shadows, the toy, or Am I linking something that doesn't really—
I can't figure it out.
Is it related to the curse?
But it doesn't feel human.
It feels Darker. Stronger. Not stronger—but strongest
Should I ask Mom?
The thought scared him more than the invisible kisses. More than the whispers. More than the moon that glowed like blood.
Because if he asked her—if he opened that door—there would be no going back.
He had to tell the truth, about the previous life, about the marriage, curse, his death, that scandal, Akanya....
Smithen set the wolf back on the desk. He lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Viran's house, the same time
Viran's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
Soon, jasmine.
His fingers brushed upward, grazing the velvety fur crowning his head. Not a mortal ear—smooth and rounded—but the proud, triangular peak of a wolf's. A vampire-werewolf hybrid. Cursed with this feral mark amid his porcelain-pale skin and razor fangs.
He gave a dangerous smirk, as an invisible caress ghosted along the edge. Feather-light strokes from fingers that only he could sense. Tracing the silken fur from base to tip with deliberate, aching slowness.
The sensation ignited his nerves like liquid silver. A warm prickle raced down his spine. His pointed ear flicked involuntarily. He clenched his jaw, crimson eyes narrowing in the dim moonlight filtering through cracked stained glass. His heightened senses amplified, Nails—ethereal yet sharp—scraping just enough to draw a low, guttural rumble from his chest.
The hybrid snarled dangerously, fangs glinting. Trapped in the vivid ecstasy of touches meant only for his savage soul.
Who—or what—caressed him this way? Whom did he allow to—? Can you guess it?
Guys, if you haven't tried "Reborn me, Vampire you". Try reading 2chp, It has mystical presence, wild cat transformation, Vampire with Giant snake.