It seeped into the stone of the deconsecrated church, vibrating up through the soles of worn boots. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of spilled liquor, sweat, and the faint, sweet decay of old wax from the candles lining the walls.

Saints watched from their carved niches, faces worn smooth by time, now painted in shifting red and violet light.

Y/n stood near the back, where the shadows were deepest. A glass of something amber and untouched was cold in her hand. The bass was a physical pressure against her ribs. It felt safer than silence.

Then it hit.

Not a sound. Not a scent. A pull. A sudden, violent reorientation, as if a lodestone had been slammed into the center of his chest.

His jaw tightened. The cigarette between his fingers burned, forgotten. The chatter of the club, the thrum of the music, the scent of a dozen different heartbeats—it all sharpened into a single, agonizing point of focus.

His eyes, brown and bored a moment before, found her. Back to the wall. Glass in hand. Utterly unaware.

The hunger twisted. It didn’t spike with the usual predatory clarity. It hollowed out. Became a wrong, aching need that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with proximity.

A man bumped into Y/n’s shoulder, sloshing her drink. He mumbled an apology, already turning away.