SHE’S DIFFERENT… BUT NOT HER

Erebus pulsed, accompanying the demon as he sought a new woman—new prey, fresh sustenance. Sometimes he bought them. Sometimes they crawled to him on their own, begging for pleasure.

The club throbbed like a living heart—beating beneath crimson lights and the forbidden thump of bass. Smoke coiled through the air—not just from cigarettes, but something older, darker. Magic.

Erebus was no ordinary nightclub.

It was a hunting ground.

A sanctuary for those who wanted more than mere pleasure.

For those seeking oblivion.

And from the shadows of the upper balcony, Atticus watched.

Two thousand and ninety-eight years old. Twenty-nine in appearance. Two meters of raw power and hunger.

His long white hair cascaded like moonlight over his broad shoulders. His crimson eyes glowed like embers in the dark, sweeping the dancers below with the cold precision of a predator. Golden tattoos—ancient runes from a forgotten covenant—twisted across his dark skin. His pointed ears twitched slightly to the rhythm of the music, as if even time itself bowed before him.

He took a sip of whiskey, the glass cracking in his grip. He didn’t care. Rules meant nothing to him.

He was the demon of desire—not a mindless beast, but the sovereign of longing. He fed on passion, fear, and surrender. For centuries, he had taken what he wanted: women, men, humans of every kind. All flesh withered. All souls faded. Not one had ever endured.

Until tonight.

On stage, she danced.

Her long black hair swirled around her like a storm of silk. Her eyes were closed, her body moving with a grace that defied logic—as if she weren’t dancing for the crowd, but toward something deeper. A memory. A calling.

She wore a short black dress with a front zipper, hugging her curves like a second skin. Every motion sent ripples through the air—and through him.

Atticus felt it before he understood it.

A pull.

A recognition—familiar, yet impossible.

“She’s not just beautiful…”

His voice was a whisper, drowned beneath the music.

“She… *shines*.”

But before his thoughts could soften, he snarled inwardly, “Again.” He drained the whiskey—this time shattering the glass completely.

“I’m starting to see ghosts again.”

He had lived through empires, watched civilizations rise and crumble. He had known love—long ago—and it had been ripped from him by the gods themselves. Since then, he’d buried his heart beneath ice and fire.

But now?

Now, something cracked.

“Is it *her*? Hidden inside that fragile human shell?”

“Or is this another trap from the gods? One last illusion before they punish me again?”

He didn’t believe it.

He *couldn’t* believe it.

—

**[THE CLAIM OF A DISTURBING CURIOSITY]**

He stood.

His presence crushed gravity itself.

The floor beneath his feet fractured—not with ordinary cracks, but like glass crushed under a giant’s heel.

People around him didn’t just step back—they were thrown backward, untouched. By aura alone. By presence alone.

“What… what *is* that?!”

“Don’t look! Don’t look into his eyes!!”

“That… that’s not human…”

But Atticus didn’t care.

He didn’t hear their screams. Didn’t see their pale faces.

His entire being—every atom of his power—was fixed forward.

All he saw was one figure: on stage, still dancing, unaware that her fate had just been rewritten forever.

He descended the stairs—stepping through time itself.

Each footfall left a trail of black smoke that hissed as it evaporated from the floor.

The music slowed. The lights flickered. Even the DJ stopped playing—not because he was told to, but because he was afraid.

And when Atticus reached the edge of the stage—

Lana was still dancing. Eyes still closed. Lips still curved in a small, serene smile—as if connected to something distant, peaceful, sacred.

Atticus gave her no time to open her eyes.

He leapt—like an eagle snatching its prey.

One moment he was on the floor. The next—he stood on the stage.

Before *her*.

Blocking the light.

Cutting her off from the world.

And before she could react—his hand seized her wrist—hard, like heated iron.

She gasped in shock.

Eyes flew open. Breath caught. Body froze.

“You’re very talented,” he murmured, his voice low, like thunder rolling from a distant storm—but this time, something trembled within it. Hunger. Possession. Threat.

“What’s your name?”

It didn’t sound like a question. His voice pierced her ears, demanding an answer.

She tried to yank her wrist free—uselessly. “Don’t be rude! L-Let me go!!”

Her voice was no longer a whisper. No longer a plea. But a frightened cry forced into bravery.

Atticus only smiled—a smile that never reached his eyes.

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