KarmaGhostJess👻 @karmaghostjess93 - Tumblr Blog

FELIX | THE BOY WITH COLD HANDS 2

PAIRING: Felix! x F!Reader

CONTENT: Supernatural AU: Skz vampires, Slow Burn, Blurring Lines, Blurring Lines..

SUMMARY: What started as a confession under the stars on the club's rooftop ends in carnage. After being spotted by an intruder, the protagonist witnesses the true lethal nature of Felix and the clan. Although he kills to protect her, the raw reality of the vampire world shatters the fantasy bubble, forcing her to make a painful choice: to walk away so she can breathe, leaving a vulnerable and blood-stained Felix waiting in the dark.

You stop halfway through the venue, your heart shrinking a little. You had never heard that upper floor so clearly before. There was always music covering everything; now, the words pour down the stairs as if someone had opened a floodgate.

“I’m only reminding you how dangerous it is” Chan’s voice—louder than you’ve ever heard it—hits the air.

You freeze.

“I already know” Felix responds, defensive. “You don’t need to repeat it to me as if I were a child.”

You recognize his voice. The tone, you don’t. There’s an edge to it, a contained rage.

You take a couple more steps toward the center of the club, as if that would clarify what you’re hearing. You don’t go up, but the sound reaches you with more clarity.

“Precisely because you’re not a child” Chan insists. “Because you’ve lived long enough to know what happens when you mix our world with hers.”

A thick silence follows. Then, Chan adds, lower but still audible:

“It’s better if you stay away from her.”

Your stomach knots.

“Her.”

They don’t say your name, but they don’t have to. In this context, it can only be one person.

You.

You instinctively hide behind one of the pillars near the stairs, as if they could see you through the floor. You don't want to eavesdrop, but the words keep falling.

“I’m not doing anything crazy” Felix throws the sentences like stones. “I only see her every now and then at the club.”

“I have information” Chan replies, sharp. “Don’t make me look like an idiot. You’ve been seen outside. In daylight. Moving through public places with her.”

You feel as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over you.

“You’ve been seen.”

“Information.”

That “outside, in daylight” is you, inevitably. The cafe, the bookstores, the walks. All those moments that felt so intimate... they’ve left a trail.

Another voice enters the conversation. Lower, cutting.

“It’s none of my business” he says.

You don’t recognize it at first. Then, when it speaks again, you associate it with a face you’ve seen in passing at the club, always in the shadows, always watching from a corner: Minho.

Felix snaps.

“Seriously, Minho?” you hear him almost shout. “You too? Now you’re spending your time following me around?”

“I’m just following orders” Minho responds calmly, without raising his voice. “I’m not the one who decided to stroll around half the city with a human.”

Chan speaks up again.

“Felix, nobody is saying you can’t…” he searches for the word, “…feel things. I’m not a monster. But you know how this ends when one of our kind grows too fond of one of theirs.”

The pause that follows stifles you.

“She isn’t ‘one of theirs’ like the others” Felix spits out, as if defending himself against something even you don’t fully understand. “And it’s none of your business who I see outside the club, either.”

“It becomes my business when your…” Chan seems to hold back the word for a second, “…attachment puts a spotlight on our door,” he says, his tone hardening again. “Ever since she showed up, everyone else has been talking about nothing else. The clans are noticing. They’re asking questions. They want to know why a human matters so much to you.”

The floor seems to shift beneath your feet.

“Everyone else has been talking about nothing else.”

“Why a human matters so much to you.”

The thumping in your ears nearly drowns out the voices.

Felix responds, and now his voice sounds wounded.

“Because she’s not just another human” he says. “And because, for once in too long, something makes me feel…”

He cuts himself off. He hits something; you imagine him running a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“I’m not going to give you explanations about how I feel” he finishes. “I’m not your son.”

“No” Chan agrees, his voice lower. “You’re someone I don’t want to see break over the same story.”

That phrase cuts through you.

The same story.

The idea that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened makes your stomach churn.

Minho speaks again, dryly:

“I’m just saying, if you keep taking her to cafes and going on night walks as if she were your human girlfriend, don’t expect the rest of the world to stay blind.”

That word hits you right in the chest.

“Human girlfriend.”

It isn’t something you have said. It isn’t something he has said to you. But it’s there, in the mouths of others, as if it were already such an obvious possibility that it’s causing concern.

You wanted to leave. To make noise, turn the doorknob, walk out without looking back. But your feet won’t obey. You stay there, caught between curiosity and the guilt of listening to something you shouldn’t.

Felix speaks again.

“Stop talking about her as if she were a strategic risk” his voice trembles with rage. “She is a person. She isn’t a ‘spotlight,’ or a ‘threat,’ or a ‘weak link.’ She is…” he hesitates, and in that void, a thousand possible words slip in. “She is someone I am not going to use or discard for your peace of mind.”

Chan lowers his tone a bit. Even so, it reaches you:

“You are free to think whatever you want” he says. “But your freedom doesn’t erase consequences.”

A longer silence follows.

You feel that if you keep listening, you will hear things you aren’t ready to process yet. And at the same time, you know you’ve already heard enough that nothing will ever fit the same way again.

You take a careful step backward, trying not to make a sound.

Your intention is to leave. Maybe send Felix a message later, pretending you were running late—inventing any excuse so you don't have to look at him with all of this fresh in your mind.

But in that discreet movement, your shoulder brushes against a poorly placed bottle on a side table. It wobbles. It falls.

The crash against the floor sounds far too loud in the silence of the empty venue.

Upstairs, the voices cut off instantly.

Your heart skyrockets. You don't need someone’s hand on your chest to tell you that.

You hear footsteps approaching the stairs.

You don't have time to leave. The street door is too far away. You stay where you are, by the pillar, feeling shame and fear mingle: you’ve overheard intimate, harsh things, and now they’re going to see you there—an accidental witness to a confrontation that revolves around you.

Felix’s silhouette appears at the top of the stairs, coming down fast. His eyes find yours the second he sets foot on the club floor.

For an instant, his expression passes through three clear stages: surprise, concern… and something akin to resignation.

Because he knows you’ve heard, at least, a part of it.

Chan eventually comes down too.

You see him appear at the foot of the stairs, with Minho a step behind him, deeper in the shadows. Chan’s expression is no longer that of the leader you just heard shouting; he has composed himself, but the hardness remains in his eyes.

Their gazes shift from Felix to you. Then they settle on you, fully.

“I suppose you’ve heard more of us than you should have” he says, with a somewhat uncomfortable sincerity.

You’re not quite sure how to stand. You end up nodding, without any embellishment.

“Enough to know you were talking about me” you respond. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to… overhear.”

Chan shakes his head slowly.

“You aren’t the one who should apologize” he says. “We’re the ones who were talking about you like a logistical problem, instead of a person who was about to walk through that door.”

He takes a few steps closer but maintains a respectful distance. Minho stays still further back, watching in silence.

“I didn’t introduce myself as I should have the first time” Chan continues. “I’m Chan. The one who tries to keep all of this—” he makes a gesture encompassing the club, the building, perhaps something even larger— “from falling apart.”

You already knew, but you nod anyway.

“And yes” he adds, without beating around the bush. “We were arguing because of you. Not because you’ve done anything wrong, but because…” he looks at Felix, then back to you, “…because we care too much about what happens to you.”

The choice of the plural catches your attention.

Felix snorts, crossing his arms.

“What he means” he murmurs, “is that I’m an idiot who has let himself be seen with you too much, and now everyone is hysterical.”

“What I mean” Chan corrects with a sigh, “is that there are things that you—” he looks at you, “—don't know yet, and that he—” he points to Felix, “—hasn’t told you either because…” he tilts his head, “well, because he’s Felix.”

The tension between them is still there, but Chan lowers his voice a bit.

“This isn’t a good place to continue this conversation” he adds. “Not now.”

He looks at Felix.

“Take her up to the rooftop” he says. “Talk. Explain to her what she needs to know. I…” he glazes at his watch, “have to deal with suppliers before this turns into a literal soap opera.”

His eyes return to yours once more.

“And for what it's worth” he adds. “I’m truly sorry. You aren’t a ‘risk.’ You’re a person. It’s just that we’ve… lived long enough to see too many times how these kinds of stories end.”

You aren’t quite sure how to respond, so you just nod.

“Thank you… for saying that” you murmur.

Chan nods too, with a slight tilt of his head, and turns to go back up. Minho stays for a second longer, looking at you with those sharp, inscrutable eyes.

“It’s not personal” he says simply. “It’s… survival.”

Then he follows Chan, leaving you both alone on the empty club floor.

Felix runs a hand through his hair, exasperated.

“I’m sorry” he says. “There’s no good way to handle something like this.”

“It could have been worse” you respond, trying to lighten the mood. “They could’ve been talking about what… tastes like—” you stop, wrinkling your nose. “Okay, better not finish that sentence.”

Felix lets out a laugh, brief but sincere. That breaks the tension a little.

“Come” he says. “The rooftop is… more honest.”

The elevator is old and makes a small rattling noise as it goes up, but it works. Felix presses the top button, staring at the floor number with exaggerated focus, as if that would save him from having to look at you and answer prematurely.

You stay silent, too. Every meter you ascend feels like moving a bit further away from the noise of the club… and closer to the heart of something more delicate.

Upon arriving, Felix opens a metallic door and a gust of fresh air hits you both.

The rooftop is spacious, with a couple of industrial fans, antennas, and some potted plants that someone has tried to keep alive. The city opens up around you: distant lights, cars like fireflies, buildings silhouetted against a dark sky with few stars.

Felix walks a few steps toward the railing, gesturing for you to come closer.

“I usually come here when everything downstairs is too much” he says. “There’s no music, no shouting, just… this.”

You lean against the railing beside him. The wind ruffles your hair a little.

For a few seconds, you both just watch the city.

“You heard Chan say ‘The same story’” Felix begins, without beating around the bush. “And I know that if I don’t explain it to you, you’re going to invent ten worse stories in your head.”

You don’t deny it.

“I thought he was talking about you” you confess. “That… something like this had happened to you before.”

Felix shakes his head slowly.

“No” he responds. “I’ve had… complications. But nothing like that.”

He takes a deep breath, as if preparing to pull something ancient out of a drawer.

“The one who married a human was Chan.”

You didn't expect that.

You look at him, surprised.

“Chan… got married?”

Felix nods with a sad half-smile.

“A long time ago. In a time when being what we are was much more… dangerous than it is now. Fewer rules, more chaos. More vampires without a code, fewer ‘neutral’ places.”

He leans his elbows on the railing, looking toward some distant point that you cannot see.

“She didn’t know at first, of course” he continues. “She was…” he barely smiles, “even more curious than you, if you can believe it. And he…” he shakes his head. “He was worse than I am when it came to setting boundaries.”

You imagine it: Chan, younger in appearance, in love with a human, breaking all the rules he now tries to enforce. The contrast tightens your chest a little.

“When he told her, she stayed” he continues. “She believed him. She chose him. Against everything. They got married; they made a life as best they could among shadows, excuses, and white lies.”

A pause.

You know what’s coming. You’ve read enough stories, seen enough traces on Chan’s face not to need a made-up happy ending.

“The enemies we had back then weren’t… ‘civilized’ like some are now” Felix adds. “They didn’t accept neutral ground or deals. When they found out Chan had something to lose…” he grips the railing, “they went after her. Not him. Her.”

You swallow hard.

“They killed her” you say, very quietly.

He nods without looking at you.

“In front of him” he whispers. “To make the punishment last longer.”

The wind feels colder all of a sudden.

“Since then” he continues, “a long time has passed… many years. Chan has seen entire generations die. Humans, vampires. But her… he’s never let go of that.” He finally looks at you. “That’s why he is the way he is. Overprotective, controlling, a pain. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in what we feel. It’s that he knows the price.”

You understand.

Not just with your head, but with something deeper. It doesn’t justify them making you a topic of discussion behind closed doors, but… it explains the fear underneath.

“When he says ‘the same story’” Felix looks back at the city, “he isn’t talking about me. He’s talking about his story repeating with a different face. With yours. Or with mine, broken afterward.”

A knot forms in your throat.

You dare to ask:

“And you? Are you… afraid of that?”

He takes his time to answer.

“I’m afraid of many things” he admits. “Of losing control, of turning you into something you’re not, of you getting hurt because of me.” He shoots you a sideways glance. “And of all that ceasing to matter because…” he falls silent for a second, “…because you matter more to me than every rule I know.”

Your fingers, resting on the railing, tense up a little. You feel the cold metal beneath your warm skin.

You feel a physical need to touch him, to break that half-meter distance that feels like miles.

You don't think about it too much.

You slide your hand bit by bit until it brushes against his. Just with your knuckles, at first. A small touch, to see if he pulls away.

He doesn't.

On the contrary.

Felix turns his hand and intertwines his fingers with yours, firm yet delicate. His palm is cold, but the gesture warms you through and through.

He stares at your hands for a second, then looks up into your eyes.

“You know I didn't start all this for your novel” he says with a sad smile.

“I…” you take a deep breath. “At first, I kept telling myself that. That it was for the story.”

“And now?”

You bite your lip. You could dodge the question, but it wouldn't make sense—not after what you’ve just heard.

“Now I write to have an excuse” you confess. “To keep seeing you. To keep asking things. To keep…” you swallow hard, “…feeling this.”

You squeeze his hand a bit tighter as you say it, without naming it.

Felix closes his eyes for a second, as if those words were something he had been waiting too long to hear… and fearing at the same time.

When he opens them, he takes a step closer. You are even closer now, almost face to face, hands joined between you.

“If I go on with this” he says, very low. “I won’t know how to stop halfway.”

Your heart thumps so hard you wonder if it’s louder than the distant hum of the city.

“Neither will I” you respond.

The tension thickens.

He leans in slightly, his face approaching yours. You can count his eyelashes, see a small blue vein tracing his temple, feel the brush of his cold breath mingling with yours.

His gaze drops to your lips for just an instant, then travels back up to your eyes, as if asking for permission.

You don’t say no.

He takes the final half-step.

His free hand rises, hesitating for a second before brushing your cheek with his knuckles—a gesture clumsily gentle for someone who could break steel.

You feel that if he leans in just one more centimeter, you will finally cross that line.

His nose nearly brushes yours. You close your eyes, unable to help it, breath held.

And then—

“Felix hyung.”

The voice cuts through the air like a snap.

The two of you pull apart suddenly, as if someone had yanked an invisible thread. Your hand remains intertwined with his, but the distance between your bodies increases just enough for the near-kiss to break.

You turn around.

Jeongin is standing at the rooftop door, slightly hunched over, with an expression that clearly says, “I wish I wasn't interrupting this.” He raises his hands, looking guilty.

“I’m sorry” he says quickly. “Really. But…” he looks at Felix, suddenly serious, “they need you downstairs. Han has gotten into trouble with another clan again. Chan says we have to go now.”

The name “Han” rings a bell; you’ve heard it mentioned a couple of times as the group’s walking disaster.

Felix clenches his jaw, the transition from near-kiss to leader-mode being almost painful to watch.

“What happened now?” he asks, still not letting go of your hand.

“He got into somewhere he shouldn't have” Jeongin responds dryly. “Again. They’re ‘talking’ at the east warehouse. And when I say ‘talking,’ I mean that if we don’t go, he’s going to end up with fewer teeth than you.”

Felix lets out a heavy sigh. He glances at your hand in his, then at your face.

In the faint glow of the distant neon lights, you see the internal struggle: to stay, finally, in something that had just begun to open… or to do what he’s been doing for centuries: throwing himself into the fire for his own.

You are the first to let go, slowly, so he doesn't have to choose.

“Go” you say, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “I… I’ll be fine.”

He looks at you with a mix of apology and something far more intense.

“I didn’t want our first…” he cuts himself off, corrects himself, “…I didn’t want this moment to end like this.”

You trace a small smile.

“Maybe it’s even fitting” you murmur. “Nothing between you and me has ever been simple.”

Jeongin clears his throat softly, still at the door.

“Seriously, I’m sorry” he repeats. “But if Han gets his head ripped off, he talks a lot less afterward, and it’s weird.”

Felix lets out a humorless laugh.

“I’m coming” he says.

He gives your hand one last squeeze—quick, like a seal. Then he lets go completely and heads toward the door.

Before crossing it, he turns around.

“Don’t leave the building without letting me know” he asks.

You nod.

“Be careful” you respond.

You watch him disappear with Jeongin down the stairs, urgency clinging to their every step.

You remain alone on the rooftop for a moment before following them, the wind stirring your clothes, the echo of the near-kiss still lingering on your lips, the weight of his story and Chan’s pressing down all at once.

You know that when he returns, none of this is going to be easier.

But you also know, with a newfound clarity, that you’ve already crossed a point of no return: your hands intertwined with his, your feelings spoken—even if only halfway—his fear laid bare to the air.

As Felix and Jeongin leave with the others, Changbin makes sure to lock the main door securely, takes a quick glance at the cameras, and then turns to you.

“No one can cross that door without us seeing them” he says, dryly but calmly. “You’re safe here.”

Hyunjin, already halfway up the stairs, leans over the railing with a lopsided grin.

“Relax, princess” he comments. “Consider this… your temporary home.”

“Don’t call me princess” you protest by reflex.

“Of course” he responds, delighted, before disappearing down the hallway.

Chan, coming down the stairs, adds:

“Seriously, if you need anything, there are cameras and sensors. No one comes in or out without us knowing. If you don't want to stay on the ground floor, the breakroom from before is free.”

You lock eyes with Felix for a second. He hesitates; it’s obvious he’s not thrilled about leaving you alone, but the urgency carries more weight.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can” he promises. “If you get bored, you can look around the place… with common sense.”

You translate “common sense” as: don’t go upstairs, don’t open locked doors, don’t poke your nose where you haven’t been invited.

You nod.

“Be careful” you murmur.

And they’re gone.

The echo of their footsteps fades as they head for the door, and then, after a few moments, the distant vibration of the main entrance opening and closing indicates they’ve stepped outside.

The silence that remains is strange.

Without the people or the music, the club feels larger. The neon is off; only a few warm lights remain on over the bar and at key points around the room. The air still smells of wood, alcohol, and something metallic, but without the weight of so many bodies and mingled perfumes.

You take a deep breath.

You are alone in a vampires' den.

And, curiously, you aren't as afraid as you thought you’d be. A part of you feels… curious. Another feels something akin to a strange sense of belonging: they told you that you’re “at home,” and even though you know it’s an exaggeration, the gesture warms your chest a little.

You take advantage of their absence.

You start on the ground floor, slowly, hands in your coat pockets, eyes alert to every detail usually lost among the shadows.

The tables, now empty, show glass rings, small scratches from rings, the occasional nick that tells stories of previous nights. The bar, impeccably tidy, reflects the light off the lined-up bottles. You see notes taped inside: order lists, schedules, a small sticker of a drawing made by someone—probably Han—in a corner.

Toward the center of the venue, a narrow hallway opens between two pillars. You follow it.

There are several doors on both sides. Some have small, discreet signs: “Restroom,” “Storage,” “Staff.” You test the doorknobs discreetly. Most are locked. The few that aren’t reveal very normal things: a surprisingly clean bathroom, a small room with crates of drinks, another with sound equipment.

You stop in front of a door with no sign, made of thicker metal. The knob doesn't budge a single millimeter. You don't even force it. You know, without needing to see it, that what lies behind it isn't something you have the right to know yet.

You look up toward the upper floor. You know where Chan’s office is; you’ve seen the door at the end of the hallway, but you don't even consider it. It would be crossing a line you don't want to cross—not after what you heard earlier.

You sigh and retrace your steps.

Eventually, your feet lead you to a place you do know: the breakroom.

You open the door.

Inside, everything is calm. The large sofa, the armchairs, the low table. The floor lamp casts a soft light over the rug. In one corner, a small refrigerator hums quietly.

You close the door behind you and allow yourself to let out your breath, as if you had been holding it without noticing.

You hadn’t stopped to look at this room calmly last time; you were too focused on Felix—on what he was saying, on what he was revealing. Now, without him, you notice new details: a couple of forgotten mugs in a corner, a jacket tossed over an armchair, a cushion deformed by the weight of someone who probably fell asleep here far too many times.

On the table, there are a couple of loose pens and a pad of blank paper.

You approach them, almost with the reflex of a predator facing literary prey. You pick up a sheet, feeling it between your fingers. The pen writes well when you test it on a corner.

You smile to yourself.

You sit on the sofa, tuck your legs in, lean your back against the rest, and place the paper on your knees.

You don't have your laptop, but your head is too full to let this pass.

You start to write.

Nothing orderly, nothing clean. Loose phrases:

How Chan sounded when he said “the same story.” The image of Chan falling in love and losing everything. The weight of the centuries he’s been carrying that pain. Felix on the rooftop, telling you about it, his fingers intertwined with yours. The feeling of his hand on your chest, listening to your heart. His laughter in the cafe, the sunglasses perched on his tied-back hair. The streets that seem to belong to him at night. The way he said, “You matter more to me than every rule I know.”

The words come out as they can. Some will be rearranged later; others will stay just as they are—raw—but you don’t have to invent as much anymore. You are transcribing what you feel, disguised as fiction.

You jot down bits of dialogue:

“If I go on with this, I won’t know how to stop halfway.” “Neither will I.” “I don’t want all our firsts to end like this.”

You write his name—Felix—and then you cross it out, substituting it with “him,” with “the vampire,” with anything else that works for the manuscript. But you know who he is.

You concentrate so hard, getting so deep into that writing trance, that time… simply dissolves.

When you finally look up because your fingers and neck ache a little, the silence of the club is no longer there.

There’s noise—voices, footsteps, the none-too-gentle slam of the main door.

You check your phone.

2:07 AM.

You blink.

When Felix left with Jeongin, it was still relatively early. The sheet of paper on your knees is nearly full: loose phrases, scenes that popped into your head, dialogue you didn't want to lose. Between line and line, time had simply unraveled without you noticing.

You quickly tuck the pen back onto the low table, leave the sheet clearly visible so you won’t lose it, and head out into the hallway.

As you lean over the railing of the stairs overlooking the ground floor, the scene hits you full-on.

Changbin and Minho come in first, carrying someone between them. They’re practically hauling him, each holding an arm. The guy in question is covered in bruises: split lips, a swollen cheekbone, a gash on his eyebrow that’s dripping blood. And yet, he’s laughing.

“Did you see his face?” he wheezes, choked by laughter. “He thought he had more bodyguards.”

Han.

Even though it’s the first time you’ve seen him up close, there’s no doubt. There’s something in his chaotic energy, in that misplaced laughter, that fits perfectly with the little you’d been told about him.

“What I saw” Changbin grunts, “is that they nearly ripped your head off.”

“Details, details” Han makes a theatrical gesture with his hand, only to groan when Minho grips him a little tighter.

Hyunjin walks in behind them, looking impeccable despite everything, moving with that effortless elegance that makes him seem detached from the chaos even when he’s right in the middle of it. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that is, indeed, stained red at the side.

“This shirt was new” he laments. “New. Do you know how many minutes it took me to pick it out?”

“I’ll wash it with my blood” Han laughs, doubling over slightly in pain but never stopping with the jokes.

“That’s the problem, you idiot” Hyunjin responds. “It’s already been washed with your blood.”

Chan enters as well, right behind them, his brow furrowed but without the panic you might have expected. He seems more annoyed than anything else.

“One day we’re not going to make it in time” he snaps at Han, shaking his head. “And when I ask, ‘Where’s Han?’, they’re going to point at a puddle.”

“It would be a very cute puddle” Han retorts, winking.

Jeongin enters next, carefully closing the door behind him. His hair is a mess, his shirt wrinkled, but he’s unharmed.

And finally, Felix appears at his side.

You look for him almost without realizing it. As soon as his figure crosses the threshold, the rest of the noise fades away.

He’s wearing the black T-shirt he had on earlier under his jacket, which is gone now. There are smudges of dirt on the sleeves and some dark splatters you’d rather not analyze too closely. On his left cheek, a thin red line opens from his cheekbone toward his jaw—a fresh cut with a single drop of blood still trickling down.

Your body reacts before your head does.

You rush down the stairs, almost running, dodging Hyunjin and Jeongin, leaving Han and the others in your peripheral vision. Your legs carry you straight to Felix, as if by inertia.

“Are you okay?” the words come out without a filter.

He turns just as you reach him. His eyes widen a bit at seeing you so close, so… worried.

Before you can stop yourself, your hand rises and rests on his wounded cheek, carefully, your thumb barely brushing the edge of the cut.

The skin beneath your palm is cold, but the blood is warm.

Felix blinks, surprised. Then he gives a lopsided smile, slightly flushing—not so much from the contact as from the awareness of the gazes behind you.

“It’s… nothing” he says, lowering his voice. “Just a scratch. I’d swear the other guy came out worse.”

You don’t take your hand away.

“You’re bleeding out in the middle of the room” you retort, dramatic out of sheer worry.

“I can’t bleed out that easily” he tries to joke.

“I don’t care how easy it is” you murmur. “You need to clean it.”

Behind you, there’s a muffled throat-clearing. Han has turned his head, wince of pain and all, clearly ready to drop a comment.

“Ooooooh, look who’s— h—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Minho’s hand claps over his mouth in a swift, precise motion.

“Silence” he orders, without losing his cool.

Han grumbles beneath Minho’s fingers, but it’s completely unintelligible. Changbin and Minho take advantage of his distraction to start hauling him upstairs, perhaps toward that very same breakroom to patch him up… or to tie him to a chair.

Jeongin makes himself busy tidying something behind the bar. Hyunjin watches the scene with a smug little smile, but he doesn't say anything either.

There’s something almost conspiratorial in how everyone suddenly finds tasks to do far away from the two of you.

Felix notices all of it and flushes a bit more. Even so, he doesn't pull away.

“There’s a first-aid kit in the breakroom” he says, addressing you. “White cabinet, second shelf. It has everything.”

You nod.

“Let’s go.”

You turn to head toward the hallway and realize then that your hand is still on his cheek. You pull it back with a small apologetic gesture, but in that same movement, Felix’s fingers close around your other hand.

You couldn’t say who grabbed whom.

You only know that as you cross the room toward the hallway, you are holding hands, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The breakroom is just as you left it, except for your sheet of paper on the table. Felix lets himself fall onto the sofa, obedient for once, while you head for the cabinet he pointed out.

You open it.

Inside is a bit of organized chaos: boxes of gauze, disinfectant, bandages, band-aids, scissors. You grab what you need almost by instinct: gauze, saline solution, a bit of disinfectant.

When you turn around, he’s already leaned back a bit on the sofa, tilted toward the rear, watching you.

“You look like you do this often” he comments, watching you prepare the supplies.

“I’ve had clumsy roommates” you respond. “And I’m very well-acquainted with tripping.”

You step closer, setting the supplies on the coffee table. Then you kneel in front of him, positioning yourself between his knees without thinking too much about it, simply for the convenience of reaching the wound properly.

Up close, the cut looks less severe than it did from a distance. A thin line, not very deep, more dramatic because of the blood than the actual damage.

You soak a gauze pad with saline.

“It’s going to sting” you warn.

“I’ve been in worse fights” he responds, relaxed.

As soon as the damp gauze touches his skin, his body makes a small, involuntary gesture: a slight twitch in his jaw, a tightening of his fingers over his own knees. He doesn’t complain, but you notice it.

“See?” you murmur with a small smile. “It hurts you, too.”

“It’s… different” he retorts, almost amused. “A blow isn't the same as… you, with that look of ‘if anything happens to you, I’ll kill everyone.’”

You feel the heat rise to your face.

“I don’t have a face like that” you protest, focused on the cleaning.

“You do” he insists in a low voice.

You finish cleaning the blood and apply a bit of disinfectant. Afterward, with a fresh, dry gauze pad, you pat the edge of the cut dry. His skin is cold beneath your fingers, but very much alive.

The entire time, he never takes his eyes off you.

You’re so close you could count his freckles, see the line of his jaw, notice how the tension from the fight has been transforming into something else since you entered the room.

You’ve just placed a small band-aid—almost ridiculous for someone like him—and you slowly pull your hands back.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

You stay there, kneeling between his legs, your hands still near his face. Felix leans forward slightly, closing the distance even further.

The silence that settles in isn’t awkward. It’s expectant.

You notice his gaze drop from your eyes to your mouth, just for a second. His right hand moves, slowly, until it rests over one of yours, which is resting on his knee. His fingers intertwine with yours almost by inertia.

Your heart, traitorous, picks up its pace.

“Thank you” he whispers. “I could have left it as it was, but…” he gives a lopsided smile, “…I like that it's you who’s worried.”

“I don’t like seeing you bleed” you respond, more sincere than you intended.

Felix leans in a little more. Now, if you lift your chin, his lips will be dangerously close to yours. You feel the sofa behind him, the floor beneath your knees, the world shrinking to the tiny pocket of air left between your mouths.

His free hand rises slowly, brushing your cheek with his fingertips. The contact is soft, almost reverent.

“Before…” he murmurs, referring to the rooftop, “…we were interrupted.”

“I remember” you whisper, conscious of every single millimeter.

“I don’t want all our… firsts to end like that.”

Your breath catches.

He moves a bit closer.

“May I?” he asks, barely in a breath, his eyes searching yours for one final confirmation.

You don’t look away. You don’t say no.

The answer is in how you squeeze his hand a bit tighter, in how you lean in too, closing the little distance that remains.

His lips brush against yours.

It’s minimal contact at first—a timid caress rather than a full kiss—as if you both needed to prove that this is real. That you can kiss a vampire in a breakroom at two in the morning, after he’s returned from a fight, and that the world won't break because of it.

You feel the cold of his mouth mingling with the heat of yours. The contrast shivers through your entire body.

Felix takes a deep breath against your lips, as if he had been holding back for a very long time.

The kiss deepens just slightly—just enough for his lips to move over yours with more intent, sweetly, without any rush. There are no teeth, no fangs, nothing of what you had feared in your teenage readings. Only an intense gentleness that disarms you.

Your free hand rises by instinct to his neck, fingers brushing the cool skin beneath his hairline. He shivers a little at the touch, but he doesn't pull away. On the contrary, he pulls you a bit closer, as if he feared this were all a dream and he might wake up at any moment.

You don’t know how long it lasts. It could be seconds or minutes. You only know that when he finally pulls back a few millimeters, he is still so close that his forehead brushes yours.

He smiles, his breath unnecessarily ragged.

“That…” he whispers. “That definitely wasn’t for research.”

You laugh, your voice a bit raspy.

“I’m going to have to invent an entire scene to justify it in the book” you murmur.

He rests his forehead against yours for a second longer, as if needing that final point of contact before letting you breathe.

“You don’t have to justify anything with me” he says. “Not here, and not on your pages.”

Your hands remain entwined. Your heart is still racing too fast to be “just curiosity.”

He smiles, half-dazed.

“This complicates my plan to keep you ‘safe and objectively distant’ a bit” he murmurs.

You’re about to say something equally clumsy when, treacherously, your body decides to intervene.

Your stomach growls.

Loudly.

Loudly enough that, in the silence of the room, it’s perfectly audible.

You pull back a bit suddenly, feeling the flush creep up your face.

“Great” you mutter. “Super romantic.”

Felix blinks once and then bursts out laughing—that deep, warm laugh that you like far too much.

“I think I just got some competition” he says, placing a hand over his chest. “Your stomach sounds louder than your heart.”

You cover your face for a second, caught between embarrassment and amusement.

He takes the opportunity to glance at your phone, which you’ve left on the table. He picks it up, pressing the lock button just to check the time. His eyebrows arch.

“It’s past three in the morning” he announces. “You’ve been here since…” he does the math in his head, “…too many hours. You hasn't had a decent meal since God knows when, and you should have been asleep a long time ago.”

He sets the phone back in its place and looks at you with that mix of affectionate reproach and humor.

“I’m the vampire here, not you” he adds. “You can’t go around skipping meals and schedules as if you didn’t need anything.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

“I had… a lot to write” you defend yourself weakly.

“And a human body to feed” he retorts. “Maybe it’s time you headed home. I’d love to stay here with you until the sun comes up, but…” he raises an eyebrow, “…we’ll have time for that. Right now, you need to eat something and sleep.”

You know he’s right. Your body knows it, too: now that the adrenaline from the kiss is starting to fade, exhaustion hits you all at once.

You don’t argue.

“Fine” you concede. “But you’re not going to make me feel guilty for being a focused writer.”

“Only a little” he smiles.

He rises from the sofa and holds out his hand to help you up. You take it. This time, when you stand, he doesn't let go right away. You stay there for a second, standing face to face, still close.

“Come on” he says softly. “I’ll walk you.”

As always, you cross the club together. This time there are no people, no music, no curious stares. Only the dim light, the empty tables, the echo of your footsteps, and the memory of his lips still on yours.

He steps out first, holding the door for you.

The street is quiet, the air cold. You walk slowly toward your building. Neither of you speaks much; you don’t need to. Felix’s hand brushes yours several times, as if testing whether it’s too soon to hold it again.

You don’t reach for him, but you don't pull away either. Your whole body vibrates in a strange balance between calm and electricity.

You reach your front door.

You stop and turn toward him.

“Thank you for… everything” you say, knowing that “everything” covers many things: the talk on the rooftop, the half-confessions, leaving you alone in the club because he trusted you, coming back in one piece, the kiss.

Felix shoves his hands into his pockets, as if he doesn't know what to do with them if he isn't holding you.

“Thank you for not running away” he responds. “Not when I told you what we are, not when you saw Han looking like a mess, not when…” he smiles, tilting his head, “…this.”

A small, strange silence follows.

The other times, everything here was simple: “goodnight,” a smile, him waiting until you went inside, you going up with a calm heart but a head full of questions.

Now, there’s something else in the air: the fresh memory of his mouth on yours just a few minutes ago.

Neither of you really knows how to say goodbye.

He seems torn between leaning in toward you again or playing it safe with a verbal farewell. His eyes drop to your mouth for a moment, then snap back up. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it.

You realize that if you don’t do something, the two of you are going to stand there forever, trapped in a “should I kiss him, should I not?” loop.

So, you decide not to overthink it anymore.

You take a small step toward him, stretch up on your tiptoes, and give him a quick kiss on the lips. A soft, short touch—almost like a “seal” on what happened before.

“Goodnight” you whisper before he can react too much.

You turn away instantly, heart racing, and start fumbling with your keys at the front door as if your life depended on it. You feel his gaze on the back of your neck—warm, incredulous.

“Goodnight” he responds, his voice a little lower, a little happier.

You open the door and step inside. Just before it closes, you barely turn your head: you see him still there on the sidewalk, smiling as if someone had just switched on a light inside him.

When the door closes completely, you lean your back against it for a few seconds, trying to process that you just kissed—twice in less than an hour—a vampire at your front door.

Upstairs in your apartment, your laptop, your notes, and your bed are waiting. But tonight, even if you collapse from exhaustion, you know you’re going to dream more about his mouth than any line you’ve ever written.

Felix walks back to the club slowly.

He’s in no rush this time. The early morning air feels less hostile. For the first time in a long while, the weight of the years feels… bearable.

He mentally replayed everything that happened in a single day: the argument with Chan, the rooftop, confessions he hadn't dared to vocalize in centuries, the fight with the other clan, Han nearly losing his head, your hand on his wound, the kiss in the breakroom, your stomach growling, the quick kiss at your front door.

He smiles to himself, in the middle of the street.

Happy, on one hand. Worried, on the other. He knows none of this has made the dangers, the rules, or the eyes watching them disappear. But now those fears coexist with something he hasn't felt in far too long: hope. A longing for a text from you, for an afternoon coffee, for a late-night walk.

And, for the first time, he feels that “the same story” doesn’t have to mean “the same ending.”

Over the following days, the texts fly back and forth.

You write between work, classes, and coffees; he replies between shifts, customers, and clan meetings.

Today I tried to write the breakroom kiss scene. I ended up writing a different kiss altogether..

Can I become a fan of your novel even if it’s about me?

It’s egocentric, but yes.

At the club, the changes don’t go unnoticed. Felix smiles more. He already smiled quite a bit, but now it’s different: there’s a new light in his gestures, in how he looks at his phone when it vibrates in his pocket, in how his face softens when he sees your name on the screen.

One of those nights, the place is packed. He’s behind the bar, moving quickly between bottles, glasses, and customers, but in every small breather, he reaches for his phone under the counter to reply to a text from you. He can’t help himself. He catches himself smiling like an idiot at a sentence of yours about how Han would be a character of "necessary chaos" in the novel. He’s typing a response when a shadow looms over the bar.

“Hey.”

He looks up.

Hyunjin is standing in front of him, leaning his elbows on the bar, watching him with a sharp smile.

“Stop texting your girlfriend” he says, completely shameless, “and serve these people before they start complaining that the bartender is in love.”

Felix shoots him a warning look, his ears inevitably turning a bit red.

“She’s not…” he begins.

“Of course she is” Hyunjin interrupts, delighted. “If your smile were any more obvious, it would have her name written in neon. In italics.”

Felix huffs.

“Mind your own victims” he retorts. “And stop calling ‘girlfriend’ the person you call ‘princess’ when you think no one is listening.”

Hyunjin feigns offense.

“I respect royalty” he says. “You respect the orders. You have five tickets piling up.”

He nods toward the small ticket printer at the side of the bar, where several slips of paper are indeed stacking up.

Felix looks at his phone one last time. He finishes his text to you with something short:

I’m getting scolded. I’ll tell you later how Han almost died again. And how much I love that you worry so much

He locks the screen, slips the phone into his pocket, and grabs the first glass.

“If any customer complains” he says, pouring quickly, “tell them I was busy saving the world.”

“I’ll tell them you were busy thinking about kissing a human during working hours” Hyunjin counters, amused.

Felix tosses a napkin at him.

“Get away from my bar” he grunts, but he’s smiling.

From a corner of the club, Chan watches the scene with his arms crossed, a small, resigned smile at the corner of his lips. Jeongin, by his side, whispers:

“He’s happier.”

“He is” Chan responds, watching Felix shake a cocktail shaker with more spirit than usual. “And that’s going to complicate our lives.”

He pauses.

“But…” he adds, almost to himself, “maybe it’ll make them more interesting, too.”

The story between you and Felix is no longer just “material for your book” or “a security problem for the clan.” It’s something they all begin to see, in their own way: Hyunjin teasing but keeping watch, Changbin grumpy but protective, Minho more attentive to your scent than he admits, Jeongin genuinely delighted.

You get used to the nights at the club.

You no longer enter with the shyness of that first time; you’re still cautious, but your steps are more confident. The red neon no longer feels like a threat, but rather the announcement of a familiar place.

Changbin doesn’t block your path at the door anymore.

“Welcome back” he grunts, arms crossed, but with the corner of his lip quirked in something very much like a smile.

“Thanks, official guardian” you retort.

He huffs, but he steps aside and lets you in.

Inside, the usual friendly chaos: music, laughter, drinks, moving shadows. You don’t get lost in the noise anymore; you know exactly where to look.

Hyunjin sees you before you see him.

“Look, look” he sings from a table near the bar, leaning on his elbow and waving his fingers at you in an exaggerated greeting. “Our VIP customer has arrived!”

A few heads turn, curious. You raise a hand—a small gesture, like someone greeting a familiar bartender.

In front of "the customers," there are no kisses, no intertwined hands, nothing to give away what happens once the doors close. But your eyes find Felix immediately.

He’s behind the bar today in a tight black T-shirt with an open button-down over it, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He moves as if the music were flowing through him: flipping bottles, pouring drinks at a speed no human could ever match, smiling at customers with a warmth that seems almost impossible in a place like this.

Every now and then, a strand of his fair hair falls over his forehead. He shakes it back with a brief, practiced motion. The fabric of his T-shirt stretches across his shoulders as he reaches up for a tall bottle. Your eyes linger there a bit longer than necessary, memorizing the details.

All of this, you know, will eventually be turned into words later on.

Felix, who seems distracted by his work, looks up at the exact moment you are watching him. The spark that appears in his eyes has nothing to do with the neon reflections.

He doesn’t beckon you with a gesture that’s too obvious; he simply tilts his head slightly toward a spot at the bar where a stool is free.

You make your way over.

You sit down.

He finishes serving a couple of drinks, takes the payment, and smiles. When the customer leaves, he approaches you, leaning his hands on the bar and bending forward slightly.

“Hi” he says, in that voice that sounds different when it’s meant for you.

“Hi” you respond.

You don’t touch. You don’t need to for all your nerves to instantly fire up.

For a while, you watch him work. Every chance he gets, he comes over to talk to you for a few seconds: a joke about Hyunjin having too many eyes on him, a comment about the playlist, some low-voiced remark about how beautiful you look tonight, about how much seeing you there distracts him.

You take it all in. The way he polishes glasses, how he moves without bumping into anyone, how he seems to know exactly which customer is going to misbehave before it even happens. You store it all away. A part of you is already writing, even without paper.

In one of those gaps, when the bar is momentarily clear, Felix leaves a glass on the tray, turns to Jeongin—who has come down to help—and shoots him a meaningful look.

“Cover for me for a second” he says.

Jeongin arches an eyebrow.

“Am I going to have to make up another excuse for Chan?” he asks, but he’s already stepping behind the bar.

“Tell him I went to check the stock of…” he searches for a word, then smiles, “…sugar.”

Before you can ask anything, Felix slips out from the side of the bar and reaches out his hand to you.

“Come.”

You take it without thinking.

He pulls you gently toward the hallway.

“Where are we—?” you start.

“Union break” he answers mysteriously.

Your first thought is the breakroom. And indeed, that’s where you’re headed. Felix opens the door cautiously.

Inside, the lights are low. And on the sofa, taking up almost all the space, is a figure.

Han.

He’s flat on his back, half-sprawled out, one arm dangling off the side of the couch, his mouth open in a soft but persistent snore. Someone has tucked a blanket over him up to his waist, as if they’d just accepted that he was going to stay asleep right there.

Felix stops dead in his tracks.

“Great” he mutters. “The ghost of past troubles.”

Han lets out a louder snore, stirs a little, but doesn’t wake up.

You cover your mouth with your hand to keep from laughing too loudly.

“He looks comfortable” you whisper.

“And if I wake him, he’ll probably run off into another fight” Felix responds. “Not exactly the kind of energy I’m looking for right now.”

He looks at you. You return his gaze, the shared complicity of the last few days pulsing between you.

He closes the door carefully, almost tenderly toward the "corpse" on the sofa.

“Plan B” he says.

He takes your hand again.

You go up.

The rooftop greets you as it always does: colder air, the distant hum of the city, a dark sky pierced by the lights of tall buildings.

The moment the door closes behind you, something changes.

There is no one else. No sharp-eared vampires, no customers, no music. Only the wind, the railing, and the memory of the last time you were here, on the verge of crossing a line.

This time, Felix doesn't hesitate.

He turns toward you, and the next thing you feel is his body drawing near, his hands finding your waist.

He lifts you up.

Just like that, without any apparent effort.

One second your feet are on the ground; the next, you’re in the air, your hands gripping his shoulders by instinct, a small gasp escaping your throat from the surprise.

You laugh.

“Felix!” you protest, but it comes out between chuckles.

He holds you with an unsettling ease, as if you truly weighed nothing at all. His hands are firm: one beneath your thighs, holding you steady, the other on your lower back, pulling you closer to him.

You understand what he wants without him saying a word. You wrap your legs around his hips, anchoring yourself to him. Your breath quickens, but not out of fear.

Felix looks at you closely—very closely. His eyes have that soft amber glow you’ve learned to recognize: it’s not a dangerous thirst, it’s something else. A different kind of hunger.

“I still remember the taste of your lips in that room” he whispers. “Since that day… you have no idea how much I’ve wanted to feel it again.”

You don’t give him the chance to keep talking.

Or perhaps, he doesn’t plan on waiting any longer.

His words are sealed against your mouth as he leans in and kisses you.

This time, there is no initial shyness, no cautious testing. It’s a kiss full of everything you’ve both been holding back: desire, tension, the weight of every “almost” that came before.

His lips move over yours with urgency, yet without losing their gentleness. You feel the contrast of his cool softness and your heat, the brush of his fangs in the back as the kiss deepens just enough, reminding you who you're with without frightening you.

You cling to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. One of his hands remains firm beneath you, holding you steady, while the other slides up your back, pressing you even tighter against his body.

Every part of you that touches him catches fire.

The need becomes almost physical: you were aware that you wanted him, but you didn’t know how much you truly needed this until he finally has you like this—suspended in his arms, pressed against him, your body fitting with his as if it had been waiting for you for centuries.

The kiss grows deeper, more burning. Your breath mingles with his. He lets out a low sound, barely a restrained growl against your mouth, as if having you like this unraveled him more than he’d care to admit.

You could stay like this for a long time.

In fact, you want to.

And it would be the perfect moment for everything to overflow… if it weren't for the fact that, suddenly, Felix’s body tenses up.

You feel it before you see it: a change in the way he holds you, a slight hardening of his muscles, his hand on your back going dead still.

He pulls away from your lips abruptly, though he doesn't let go of you. His gaze darts over your shoulder toward the rooftop door, but he seems to be listening to something beyond it.

His eyes narrow, focused.

“What…?” you begin, panting slightly. “What’s happening?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He tilts his head just a fraction, as if aiming an invisible ear downward, toward the lower floors.

At first, you don’t hear anything out of the ordinary. But he does.

His jaw tightens.

“I think we have uninvited guests” he finally says, his tone shifting from romantic to alert in a heartbeat.

He sets you down carefully until your feet touch the ground. His hands linger on your waist for an instant longer, as if it were hard for him to let go of you physically as well as emotionally.

“Listen to me” he says, looking you in the eye. “Stay up here. Don’t go down. No matter what happens.”

Your stomach knots.

—Felix…

“No” he cuts you off, soft but firm. “This isn’t negotiable this time. You’re smart; you know when something is a bad idea. This is one of those times. Stay. If everything goes well, I’ll be back in a bit and we’ll finish this…”

His eyes drop to your mouth for a second, then snap back up.

“…the way it’s meant to be” he adds with a tense, half-smile.

He doesn’t give you time to argue.

In a blink, he’s gone.

The rooftop door opens and closes at a speed that escapes your eyes; all that remains is the trail of displaced air and the echo of your own heartbeat.

You try to stay still.

You tell yourself to trust him, to trust Chan, Changbin, all of them. They are used to this. You are not.

But a few seconds later, you start to hear it.

From below, through the stairwell and the building’s structure, come noises that don’t belong in a club’s normal activity: a dull thud, something breaking, a voice rising. Then another. After that, the clear sound of something heavy crashing against a surface.

Your body moves before your brain can approve.

You don’t go all the way down to the ground floor, but you peer over the upper hallway, right at the edge of the stairs—just enough to see part of what’s happening below without fully exposing yourself.

What you see… doesn’t look anything like the usual nights.

In the center of the room, Chan and Changbin stand side by side, arms crossed, their gazes fixed on the door.

In front of them, at the entrance, is a group of figures you’ve never seen before. They smell different even from here: a more aggressive, metallic scent, lacking the sophisticated polish of your own group.

One of them, the one in the lead, seems to be the leader: tall, dark suit, icy eyes. No smile.

“You know you’re not welcome here” Chan says, his voice flat yet tense.

The other finally smiles, but it’s a gesture devoid of warmth.

“We’ve been told you have… special customers here” he responds, brazenly sniffing the air. “And honestly… it smells delicious.”

A shiver runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the wind on the rooftop.

Even if he doesn’t say your name, even if the room is filled with different scents, you know he’s talking about you. About the glow your blood has for them. About the rumors that have spread.

Around you, you see movement.

Felix is off to one side, behind Chan and Changbin, jaw clenched, his body taut. He doesn’t lunge, but every muscle in him screams with the need to put himself between them and any threat.

“Chan…” you hear him say, a low warning.

Chan doesn’t look at him, but his voice carries the weight of a command.

“Stay back” he responds. “Don’t get involved. I’ll handle this.”

The leader of the other clan takes another step into the venue as if he owned it.

“Neutral ground, right?” he says, amused. “What a lovely word. But neutral grounds are respected when everyone plays by the same rules. When someone brings… temptations onto the field, it’s only natural for there to be curiosity.”

Chan loses a bit of the calm in his eyes, though his posture remains controlled.

“There is nothing here that concerns you” he says. “Turn around.”

Another vampire from that group lets out a low laugh.

“Maybe we just want to try the menu” he comments. “Not all of us have your scruples, Chan.”

From that moment on, words no longer matter.

It’s a minimal gesture.

Something in the posture of one of the intruders shifts: a slight lean forward, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Chan doesn’t need anything more. Neither does Changbin.

The fight begins.

It’s nothing like the ones you’ve seen in movies—clunky, with slow effects. This is pure speed.

Changbin lunges first—a wall of sheer brute force. He closes the distance in a couple of strides, his fist slamming into one of the enemy vampires' chests with such strength that it lifts him off the ground and sends him crashing into a table, which snaps in two under the impact. Without letting him fully fall, Changbin spins and, in the same motion, takes down another with a knee to the stomach. Two against one, and the one is winning.

Chan, beside him, moves differently: calculated, precise. It’s as if every one of his strikes is measured by centuries of experience. He dodges a punch with a minimal tilt of his head, grabs the attacker's wrist, and twists it until a crack rings out. Without letting go, he slams the man’s head against the bar with just enough force to knock him unconscious, not kill him.

Jeongin appears from the side, his usual shy expression long gone. His eyes are dark and focused, his body light. He moves with startling agility: he leaps onto the back of one of the intruders, hooks an arm around his neck, and in one clean twist, brings them both down. The dull snap of a twisted neck reaches even your ears.

Hyunjin sheds his trench coat with a theatrical flourish, letting it fall onto a nearby chair. He adjusts his shirt cuff, impeccable, and smiles with that irritating calm that is so uniquely his.

“Try not to stain my suit” he says, as if he were at a party.

And then, he moves.

He doesn’t run; he doesn’t charge. He dances.

His body glides among the combatants with an almost ethereal grace. A step to the left, a spin, an elbow to someone’s ribs; a high, elegant kick that connects with another’s jaw, sending him spinning before he hits the ground. To human eyes, it would be a blur; for you, still adjusting, he’s hard to follow. You only see flashes: his hair moving, the glint in his eyes, the curve of his smirk as he smiles between punches, as if he were performing on a stage.

Han appears from the stairs, disheveled, the blanket still half-hooked over his shoulder.

“The real party starts and nobody wakes me up?” he grumbles, tossing the blanket aside.

But his complaining doesn't stop him from being in the center of the chaos in a heartbeat—tripping enemies, hurling bottles that shatter against heads, laughing as if this were a dangerous playground game.

Minho, always in the shadows, moves like a silent predator. He makes no noise; he doesn’t speak. He simply appears behind someone, one hand on their neck, the other on their hip, and in one fluid motion, slams them into the floor or against a wall. His strikes aren’t flashy, but every single one is definitive.

Felix, at first, holds back.

He stays where Chan told him, eyes darting at top speed, alert to every micro-shift. But when one of the intruders tries to bypass the main fight and heads toward the stairs—toward you, toward the top—his body reacts before his mind can.

In a breath, he is there.

He interposes himself between the enemy and the steps, his hand clamping like a claw around the other's throat.

“No one goes up here” he says, his voice lower and colder than you’ve ever heard it.

His eyes glow with an intense amber. For a second, you truly understand that he is a vampire—a predator, something far more ancient than the boy who drinks coffee with you.

The intruder tries to strike him, but Felix moves with a speed that makes the fist cut only through thin air. He hurls him back against a pillar. The impact echoes throughout the entire room.

From your partial hiding spot, your chest tightens. Fear and pride mingle in a strange mix: fear for him, pride in seeing what he’s capable of, and a flicker of fear for yourself when you realize that even seeing him this lethal, you can’t stop loving him.

The battle continues—fast, brutal, almost accidentally choreographed: Changbin taking down two with a single shoulder thrust, Hyunjin spinning like a performer between strikes, Jeongin appearing and disappearing like an agile cat, Minho finishing them off with surgical efficiency, Chan moving in the center like an ancient axis, and Felix like a sharp blade where you are the one spot he cannot allow to be touched.

From above, you see it all.

And deep down, you begin to understand that your story with them—with him—isn't just fought with kisses and confessions. It’s also fought on nights like this, where the real, dark, and dangerous world of vampires brushes against you closer than ever.

The air in the club grows even denser.

Amidst the blows, the cracks, and bodies slamming against tables and walls, there is a moment when something shifts direction.

One of the vampires from the enemy clan, who until now had been dodging Minho, pauses for a second. He tilts his head back and sniffs the air.

Even from above, you notice the gesture.

His nostrils flare slightly, his eyes narrow… and they shift, searching for you.

You shrink back a little further behind the railing—pure instinct—but it’s too late.

He sees you.

His lips curl into a slow, hungry smile. He’s no longer interested in Chan, or Changbin, or the main brawl. He has found something else.

You.

He begins to move.

Hyunjin notices it first.

He’s just finishing a spin after taking down another enemy when he catches the direction of that vampire’s gaze. He follows the line of his eyes upward, toward your semi-hidden position.

“Jeongin, on your right!” he shouts.

Jeongin reacts like a coiled spring. He snaps his head around, locates the guy who just broke away from the center of the fight, and lunges for him—fast, low, and direct.

But the other one is fast, too.

At the last second, he dodges Jeongin with an agile, almost feline spin. Instead of backing away, he lunges forward, taking a leap that leaves him clinging to one of the club's pillars.

He climbs.

His fingers dig into small crevices in the wall; his feet find purchase on the tiniest ledges. In two movements, he is already much higher than any human could ever reach in such a short time.

He’s coming for you.

You scramble back, your heart hammering so hard it’s difficult to hear anything else. You know you’re too close to the stairs—that your hiding spot stops being one the moment someone actually looks for you.

Below, Felix sees it.

The glint in his eyes changes instantly.

“Fuck” escapes his lips, raw.

He breaks formation without a second thought. He bolts toward the base of the pillar the other is already scaling, determined to intercept him before he reaches the top.

But in that same split second, another enemy, seeing the gap he’s left open, lunges at him from the side, looking to catch him by surprise.

You see it clearly from your angle. You see the second attacker pouncing toward Felix, arm raised, fangs bared, ready to sink in something more than just a punch.

Your body reacts before your mind does.

—¡Felix! —gritas.

Your voice cuts through the noise of the fight, piercing right into him.

Felix looks up for an instant—not toward the immediate danger, but toward you. His eyes meet yours, wide and terrified, pointing to something behind him.

That’s enough.

He spins just in time.

The attacker's arm passes exactly where his neck had been a second before. Felix ducks, evades him, and in the same motion, delivers a sharp blow to his side, right at the ribs. A crack rings out. He uses the other's momentum to spin him around and, with a brutal shove, hurls him against a nearby table that gives way with a crash.

He doesn’t even stop to see if the man gets back up.

He’s already running toward the pillar again.

The vampire who caught your scent has gained more height. He’s halfway between the floor and the upper level, his fingers dug into a molding, his eyes fixed on the ledge where you were hidden just seconds ago.

You move back, out of his direct line of sight, but you know that won’t stop him. Now that he has your scent, he won’t let go.

Felix reaches the base of the pillar.

With hardly any momentum, he leaps.

His fingers catch a lower ledge. With a strength that impresses you even now, he climbs almost vertically, using the wall as minimal support. In two moves, he’s already at the intruder's knees.

The intruder tries to kick him downward, but Felix catches his ankle in mid-air.

He pulls.

The force is brutal.

The other’s body snaps away from the pillar, losing all points of contact. He falls.

Felix releases his grip just in time to avoid going down with him. He slides down the wall, cushioning his descent with his hands and feet, until he also drops to the floor, right beside the enemy.

The rival vampire slams onto his back against the floor, the impact echoing throughout the entire venue.

Before he can even try to scramble up, Felix is already on top of him.

He throws himself onto him with all his weight, one knee pinned to his chest, one hand on his shoulder to keep him glued to the floor. The other hand clamps around his throat.

The intruder struggles, trying to dig his nails in, to strike his face. Felix dodges a scratch by a hair's breadth, but he doesn't blink. His eyes, from above, glow with an intense, almost searing amber.

“Don’t even think about it” he spits out, his voice deep and laden with something you’ve rarely heard in him: pure predatory instinct.

And, without hesitating, he twists his wrist.

The snap of the neck breaking is dry and final.

The body beneath him goes limp instantly, eyes still wide, the expression frozen in a mix of surprise and rage.

Felix lets go of him slowly, breathing heavily despite not needing air the way you do. He stays still for half a second, his jaw clenched, his gaze lost for a moment… before straightening up and turning toward the pillar, toward the top—toward where he knows you are.

Your hands grip the edge of the railing so hard your fingers ache. Your body trembles; you don’t know if it’s from the shock or the adrenaline rush.

Your eyes meet again.

This time, there is no bar, no music, and no customers to hide what he has just done for you.

You realize two things with brutal clarity:

One: that you have just watched Felix kill someone in front of you without blinking.

Two: that he did it for you, to stop that someone from taking a single step further up.

That clash—the monster and the boy, the predator and the one who looks at you with tenderness—is what will mark a "before and after" in your relationship.

The sounds of the fight begin to change.

Fewer dull thuds, more muffled grunts, heavy breathing. From above, you see how, one by one, the intruders are falling: unconscious, wounded, some… far too still.

The leader of the other clan is still standing.

Facing Chan.

The others have intuitively formed a circle around the two of them. Changbin, Hyunjin, Minho, Jeongin, and Felix are keeping the remaining ones at bay, but none of them interfere in that center.

Chan wipes a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His shirt is torn at the side, but he stands firm, his posture straight, his gaze fixed on the other vampire.

The enemy leader smirks, even though he’s missing half a tooth and one eye is already beginning to swell.

“You’ve lost your touch, Chan” he spits a mixture of blood and saliva onto the floor. “It didn’t used to be this hard for you.”

“I didn’t used to try to be nice” Chan responds, his voice low but weighted with something ancient.

They move at the same time.

The other lunges with a direct punch to the face; Chan doesn't fully dodge it. He lets the blow graze his jaw, using that very momentum to pivot, catch the man’s arm, and wrench it behind his back.

A crack.

The leader grunts, but tries to twist around to sink his fangs into Chan’s neck. Chan anticipates it: he drives a knee into the man’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and shoves him back.

They crash against a table, which collapses. Rolling across the floor, the enemy manages to get on top for a second, trying to drive an elbow into Chan’s throat… but Chan grabs him by the wrist, shifts his position with a hip toss, and flips him over.

Now it’s Chan who has him pinned, knee to the chest, a strong hand on the other’s jaw, forcing him to look at him.

“I told you that you weren't welcome here” he says, without shouting. “I warned you. Several times.”

The leader tries to spit in his face.

“Your neutral ground is a joke” he sneers, even then. “You can’t protect everything. You can’t protect her forever.”

Chan tightens his grip.

“I don’t need to protect everything” he responds. “Only what I’ve decided is mine.”

A heavy silence follows.

Chan sighs, as if making a decision he didn't want to make, but one that had already been written the moment they stepped through the door.

“I tried to be nice” he mutters.

He looks him in the eye one last time.

“See you in hell.”

And, with a quick, dry movement, he snaps his neck.

The sound is just like the one you heard beneath Felix only minutes ago: final.

The leader’s body goes limp. Chan releases him slowly, straightens up, and runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. He looks around.

The few intruders left conscious take in the scene, weigh their options… and decide to retreat. They crawl, they limp, they practically stumble out, dragging whoever they can with them. None of them dare to utter a single last word.

The club is left filled with the wreckage of the fight: broken tables, glass, blood, motionless bodies.

Silence.

Hyunjin is the first to break it.

He looks down at his shirt, now marked with several dark stains.

“Great” he grumbles. “Cleaning duty. Again.”

He turns toward the others, gesturing at the wreckage.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to make a black suit not look like a battlefield? And now, on top of hauling away corpses, clearing glass, and making excuses to the humans who heard the noise, I’m going to have to burn this.”

Changbin snorts, but his shoulders remain tense. Jeongin leans against the bar for a second, taking a deep breath. Han, somewhere nearby, lets out a low laugh, still riding the adrenaline. Minho is already checking that the motionless bodies stay that way, with no visible remorse.

Felix doesn't look at the bodies.

He looks up.

He sees you, huddled behind the railing, your knuckles white from gripping the edge so hard, your eyes wide open.

His expression contorts: relief first (because you’re alive, because the intruder never managed to touch you), and then… anger.

Not blind rage, but a mixture of fear and annoyance that knows exactly why it’s there: because you were there. Because he had asked you not to be.

He heads up.

The others let him go without saying a word. Chan makes eye contact with him for a second, a silent message hanging in the air: “Go.” Felix gives a slight nod and disappears up the stairs.

You step back from the railing as you hear his footsteps approaching. You don't know how to stand, how to brace yourself. You’ve seen things you’re still processing: his hand breaking necks, the look in everyone’s eyes as they killed, the ease with which death enters and leaves this place.

The door to the upper floor opens. Felix appears in the hallway, his hair slightly disheveled, his shirt stained, his eyes still glowing with the remnants of adrenaline.

He plants himself in front of you.

“I asked you” he begins, his voice low but taut, “to stay upstairs. Not to move.”

He doesn't raise his voice, but the weight of his words hits hard.

“And I stayed upstairs” you snap back, defensive. “I didn’t go down.”

“You peered over” he counters, taking a step toward you. “You put yourself right where anyone could see you.”

You notice a subtle Tremor in his hands. It’s not just anger. It’s fear.

“If I hadn't made it in time…” he cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “If I hadn’t heard Hyunjin, if you hadn’t shouted my name when the other one almost caught me from behind…” He closes his eyes for a second. “You could be dead right now. Or worse.”

The word “worse” coming from a vampire makes you swallow hard.

Your heart is racing just as fast as it was a few minutes ago, but for a different reason now: you’re angry too. With yourself, with him, with everyone—with the fact that your mere presence has turned into a bullseye.

“If you hadn’t brought me into all of this” you huff, “there wouldn’t be anyone ‘scenting’ me or leaping up pillars for me.”

The moment you say it, you know it isn’t entirely fair.

He knows it, too.

His expression looks wounded, but he doesn't shut down.

“You’re right” he admits, making no excuses. “I was the one who opened the door. I was the one who let you keep coming in. I was the one who let you…” he lets out a humorless laugh, “…get too far under my skin.”

He looks at you with an intensity that almost hurts.

“That is precisely why” he adds, “I asked you to stay away from the fire once it started. Because if something happens to me, it’s… just part of the deal. But if something happens to you because of me…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

You’ve seen him at his darkest.

You’ve seen him turn into something else: a lethal creature, fast, unhesitating when it comes to snapping a neck to protect you. You’ve seen his friends kill without blinking, cleaning up blood like someone busing tables, talking about corpses as “the next task at hand.”

And yet, looking at him now—his jaw clenched and his eyes glowing more from fear than from fury—your heart doesn't flinch.

You know what you feel.

You know you choose him, with everything that comes with it. With his light and his shadow. With the coffee and the fangs.

But you also know something else: that you can’t keep throwing yourself into this world without thinking. Not just for your sake, but for his—because of the weight you add to him every time you put yourself in danger.

You take a deep breath.

“I’ve seen what you’re capable of” you say, bluntly.

He holds your gaze, without trying to justify himself.

“And I still love you” you add, simply, as if it were a fact. Because it is.

His face softens for a second. Something in his eyes lights up, almost incredulous.

“But” you continue, swallowing against the lump in your throat, “I’ve also seen how close I came to one of yours… or one of the others, touching me. And I don’t know if…” you search for the words, “…if I’m going to be able to keep sitting up there, pretending that this is just ‘material for my book.’”

Felix takes another step toward you.

“It’s not just material” he says, almost pleadingly. “You know that.”

“I know” you respond. “And maybe that’s why, right now… I need to leave.”

The word carries weight.

You see it pierce right through him.

“I’m not saying that…” you rush to add, “that I don’t want to see you anymore. It’s not that. It’s just…” You look down at the half-cleaned chaos. “I need to walk out of here tonight on my own two feet, breathe air that doesn’t smell like blood and fear, and decide how I’ll walk back in next time. If I walk back in.”

A strange silence falls between you.

He could try to convince you to stay. He could promise you a thousand things he can’t control: that they’ll never come back, that he’ll always be there in time, that nothing will happen to you. But he knows he would be lying, and he doesn't.

Finally, he gives a slow nod.

“I’m taking you home” he says, in a low voice.

“I can—”

“I’m taking you home” he repeats, more firmly. “After that… you decide.”

You walk downstairs in silence. The lounge is a mix of disaster and routine: Hyunjin has already hauled away two corpses with a look of pure annoyance; Changbin is stacking the remains of broken tables; Jeongin is mopping up a dark puddle; Han is complaining about a bruise while Minho ignores him.

They look at you as you pass, but no one says a word. There is understanding in some gazes, guilt in others, and a strange kind of respect in all of them.

Felix opens the club door.

The night outside smells different. Cleaner, though it’s still the city. You walk to your building without speaking. This time, his hand doesn’t seek yours. Not for lack of wanting to, but out of an extreme care not to pressure you.

You stop at your front door.

You look at him.

His skin is stained, his shirt torn, his knuckles slightly split. He could be frightening. To you, he isn't.

“I want…” he begins, then stops. “I want you to know that if you decide not to come back, I’ll understand. I won’t stalk you; I won’t sneak through your window like some cheap cliché.”

You trace a sad smile.

“It would make for a good scene” you murmur.

“It would” he admits. “But we’ve had enough scenes for today.”

A pause.

“Just…” his voice drops slightly. “Don’t just stop texting me out of the blue. Even if it’s just to say ‘I need space.’ Don’t vanish without a word. That…” he swallows hard, “I don’t know if I could handle that.”

“I’m not going to vanish” you respond. “I just… need to go today. To think. To feel all of this away from the blows and the blood.”

He nods.

“I’ll text you when I get inside” you say, taking a step back toward the door.

“I’ll be… where I always am” he responds. “Between the bar and the rooftop.”

For the first time in many nights, you don’t kiss him goodbye.

Not because you don’t want to, but because right now, you know that kiss would be an anchor that wouldn't let you fully walk through that door.

You step into the building.

As the door closes behind you, you lean against it for a moment. Your heart is pounding—not with fear, but with a brutal mix of emotions: love, panic, longing, and the urge to run both up and down at the same time.

You know you’re not running away from Felix.

You’re running away from what might happen to you if you keep stepping into his world without looking.

But, as you climb the stairs to your apartment, you also know something else: that there isn’t enough physical distance to stifle what you feel. That even if you decide not to go to the club for a few days, even if you take your time responding to his texts, the simple fact remains:

You’ve seen him kill for you. You’ve seen him tremble for you. And yet, when you close your eyes, what you remember most is how he held you on the rooftop—how he kissed you as if you were the only living thing that mattered in a night full of death.

There, between that darkness and that light, is where your next move will be decided.

@little-mix-fan-forever @emeraldgem22 @honeyyyy21 @doliveiraa @blackbrumous @ stellasays45 @iconicallyher @nebugalaxy @ karlee10261990 @susu6944 @parkairis18 @quokkahansung @wheresangel @bunbunbl0gs @lostinmusicals @euonna @nebugalaxy @karmaghostjess93 @hanniesbubuwife @blindspotquokka @idkimobsessed

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