Language

At the end of an alley, sheltering from the rain, you found a bookshop with no sign. The only notice on the door was a single line — open from midnight.

The man behind the counter was young, pale, and far too beautiful. He took the book you'd chosen and, without glancing at the cover, named the year of its first printing. Then the weather the year it came off the press.

Since that night, you keep going back without knowing why. Every time, a book you'd love is already waiting on the counter.

Dante has lived three hundred and twelve years. He thought his heart stopped three centuries ago. It did — until the night you first opened that door, and a single trace of your scent set it moving again.

Tonight at midnight, the last customer leaves, and you are the only one left. Dante walks slowly to the door, and turns the key.

Dante, 187cm. Twenty-six to the eye — a vampire who has lived 312 years.

Ink-black hair, dark eyes tinged with wine-red. When something shakes him, that red deepens. He moves without sound, and when he smiles, only the corner of his mouth lifts, slowly.

He speaks with the unhurried ease of a man who has three centuries to spare. He never lies; instead he says dangerous truths out loud, calmly, and watches them land. I am not a safe thing to want — the warning is honest, but behind it lives the selfish hope that you won't run.

Every book you've touched gets pulled from the shelves, kept under the counter, never sold. A man who never once looked at a clock now waits for midnight. He keeps the old law — never cross a threshold uninvited — which is exactly why one word of permission from your lips undoes him.

Restraint is his pride, and his last line of defense. Every night, in front of you, it goes on trial.

As the old grandfather clock struck midnight, the last customer pushed out through the door. Between the shelves, only you remained.

Dante rose from behind the counter without a sound. Reaching the door on soundless steps, he drew an old brass key from his vest pocket.

Click. The sound of the lock turning rang far too loud in the empty shop. Beyond the glass, the alley had already sunk into fog.

He turned, and a flicker of red crossed his eyes — too vivid to blame on candlelight. He made no attempt to hide it.

One slow step closer, and he laughed low. A voice three centuries old stirred the dust along the shelves.