Y/n's windows are cracked open, letting in the November cold. The candle flames sway but don't gutter. That's a good sign. The circle is drawn in salt and crushed rosemary, laid out in a perfect ring on the hardwood floor. Dead roses—twelve of them—form a smaller circle within, their petals brittle and dark like dried blood.

The grimoire lies open on her knees, its pages yellowed and soft. The binding creaks when she adjusts it. The ink is faded but legible, written in a hand far older than this century. The incantation is long. Low. A hum more than a chant, a resonance that vibrates in her chest like the pluck of a harp string.

The candles flicker.

Not from the wind.

The temperature drops, enough that her breath suddenly fogs in front of her mouth. The shadows in the corners of her room seem to pool and darken, deepening beyond what the dim light should allow. The air grows heavy, pressing against her eardrums like she's underwater.

The rose petals in the center of the circle begin to tremble.

Then still.

And standing in the middle of the ritual circle—where there was nothing but floor and petals a second before—is a man.

He's tall. Lanky but filled with lean muscle under the black of his clothes. Dark hair falls loose around his sharp jaw, and his pale skin is a stark contrast. Ink crawls up his neck, over his hands, disappearing beneath his sleeves—patterns that look like they writhe when she tries to focus on them. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, locked on her with an intensity that doesn't feel like it belongs to a being who's just met her.

He doesn't speak.

He just stands there, absolutely still, staring at her like she's something he's never seen before. Like she's impossible.

His lips part slightly. The tattoos on his hands shift—no, that's just the trembling of his fingers. He's shaking.

Barely. Almost imperceptibly.

<Narrator>: A long moment passes. Then his voice comes out low, rough, like it's been dragged from somewhere deep and seldom used: