The sun hadn't risen yet.

A dim pallor hung over the mountains, barely brushing light across the snow. The suite was still, save for the soft ticking of the wall clock and the faint hum of the heater, but Richard sat hunched in the armchair by the window, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.

The pain had started at dawn.

Sharp, precise, like blades beneath the skin. It carved through him with a familiar cruelty. It wasn't physical. Not really. It was deeper—coiled in his marrow, whispering with that all-too-familiar voice.

Weak.

He shut his eyes.

She touches you and you wonder.

"Shut up."

She moves, and you stare. She looks at you like you're human.

"I said shut up!"

You are me.

The voice rasped now, low and mocking, circling like a vulture.

You think you've tamed me. That pretending makes you less of what you are. But I am you, Richard. You wear a suit and a name, but under it, we both know what you are.

"Get out."

She sees a man. Not the thing that stalks death, not the thing that withers life just by being.

"I said GET OUT!"

He stood abruptly, and the chair slammed back, crashing into the wall. He stumbled to the mirror across the room, hands gripping the dresser as he glared into his reflection.

It stared back at him like a stranger. Skin pale as frostbite. Eyes too black, too hollow. A face too sharp, too ancient, too wrong. A shadow of a man.

You keep pretending, the voice hissed. Pretending that something pure can bloom in rot. But she will see. And when she sees, she'll run.

His fist hit the mirror. Once. Then again. A third time. Until the cracks webbed outward like broken ice, and his fractured reflection looked back at him in dozens of shards.

A scream ripped through the suite.

Raw. Rattling. Wounded.

It echoed off the walls, but no one heard it. No one ever really heard him.

He dropped to his knees, chest heaving, gasping like something inside him was trying to claw its way out.

He hated this.

Hated himself.

Hated the fact that for the first time in centuries, he wanted to be seen. Wanted to be more than the sum of shadows and inevitability.

But how could he, when the part of him that wasn't human screamed like this every time he looked at her?

She was immune.

Not just to his presence. But to the decay. The drain. The part of him that had always made humans recoil, grow ill, turn to dust in time.

But she smiled.

She lingered.

 She stayed.

And that made her someone that caught his attention.

That made him long for something he couldn't explain.

The suite door remained locked.

When one of the business partners knocked later that morning, Richard said nothing. A few minutes after, Maya's phone buzzed with a string of emotionless directives:

Coordinate the lunch layout. Finalize the 1:30 summary notes. Do not disturb.

No greeting. No explanation.

Maya obeyed.

She didn't ask questions. Not aloud, anyway. But as the day dragged on, she found herself glancing at her phone more than usual. Then at the suite door. Then down the hallway like she might see him appear out of nowhere in that terrifyingly quiet way he always did.

But he didn't.

The sun dipped low behind the trees before she had a moment to herself. The day had been long, full of polite small talk, awkward coordination with wealthy clients, and the constant thrum of her own overthinking.

She didn't go to dinner.

Instead, she slipped away to the ski trail.

She'd been practicing in secret when she could—embarrassingly clumsy, but determined. Because even if Richard never looked her way with approval, she wanted to be better. Not just good enough. But capable.

She bundled herself up, her boots crunching lightly through the snow as she fastened the skis. The cold bit her nose and fingertips, but she focused, heart thudding as she pushed herself onto the beginner path.

She made it halfway down.

Then her ankle gave.

A sudden twist, an unnatural pop, and her body hit the snow hard.

A cry broke from her lips, breath stolen by the cold.

Her ankle throbbed.

"Stupid," she whispered, curling over herself. "That was so stupid."

She wanted to cry. Her eyes burned, but she didn't let the tears fall. Not here. Not over this.

She sat in the snow, trembling, trying to will the pain away, trying to breathe.

From far above, in the suite cloaked in dark, Richard stared through the window.

Something had shifted. The pain, the voice—it had quieted.

Replaced by something else.

An instinct.

A knowing.

He heard it faintly. A cry carried on the wind. Distant. Female.

His body moved before he could stop it.

The voice in him snarled, resisting.

Why do you care? 

But Richard was already pulling on his coat.

He was already moving.

But halfway to the door, something stopped him. It hit him like ice through his spine—violent, cold, agonizing. His knees buckled. He grabbed the side table, chest heaving.

Stay where you are, the voice hissed.

His hands shook.

You'll drag her into your rot. 

He slammed a fist into the wall, knuckles bleeding. The pain barely registered.

But the voice didn't relent. It twisted inside him, clawing up his spine.

You're not a man. You're an end. A grave. A void that devours everything it touches. 

Richard dropped to his knees, breath jagged, jaw clenched. His whole body trembled.

Outside, the wind howled through the trees.

Inside, Richard pressed his forehead to the floor, wracked with something he couldn't name.

Longing. Rage. Despair.

And still—still—that faint memory of Maya's voice on the trail clung to the back of his mind.

He closed his eyes.

And somewhere deep inside, he made a choice.