CRIMSON CIRCUIT by knowing honey
headcanons: slurp/isaac night + y/n fem reader
SUMMARY: Nevermore has seen many prodigies, but none like Isaac Night—brilliant, untouchable, and colder than the steel heart ticking in his chest. He fixes everything, yet feels nothing. Y/N is a walking problem, branded by a secret her tormentors will never let her forget. She needs help, but the cost of asking him might be far greater than she imagined. Because once Isaac touches something broken, he never lets it go.
WARNINGS: +18 content, language, strong sexual themes, bullying, blood (drinking/vampire themes), violence, angst, slow burn, eventuall smut, explicit content (later in chapters), emotional manipulation, dark themes, power play, dark romance.
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October slowly but surely slipped into November—cold, rainy, and unrelenting, as it always was. Students whispered excitedly in the hallways, because the long-awaited Nevermore Foundation Ball was drawing near. Every year it carried a different theme, which also meant a strict dress code. Sponsors of the academy flocked in as well, and often with them came parents of students—and Y/N’s stomach clenched at the thought that someone from her own family might show up.
“For heaven’s sake, I cannot wait to go shopping, Y/N!” squealed Yasmin, who was in the middle of peeling the last flakes of blue polish off her nails. She was so focused, tongue sticking slightly out, as if she were performing open-heart surgery. “Remind me—what exactly was the theme again?”
Y/N lazily flipped a page of the fashion magazine she’d borrowed. “The Midnight Pearls,” she mumbled, though she wasn’t paying much attention to the words.
“The Midnight Pearls?” Yasmin rolled her eyes dramatically. “What’s that supposed to mean? Mermaids from a black lagoon? Or like… a pearl necklace on the gallows? Why do I feel like the sirens came up with this?”
“Probably all of the above,” Y/N replied dryly.
“Well that’s helpful as hell!” Yasmin slapped her forehead. “And the ball is only two days away! How are we supposed to manage homework, activities, and finding dresses? It makes zero sense.”
“Hmmm.” Y/N grunted, eyes still glued to the pages, not absorbing a thing.
“And hair! And make-up!” Yasmin went on, apparently not noticing her friend’s wandering mind. “Sofia was supposed to do mine, but then Annabeth stole her. And I booked her first!”
“I think you’ll survive without braids,” Y/N answered calmly.
“No, I won’t. It’ll be a disaster!” Yasmin rolled her eyes, then flashed a grin. “So, do you think I should go with blue nail polish, or maybe pearly? The theme demands pearls.”
“But what if they don’t match my dress?”
“Then… don’t paint them yet.”
“But if I don’t do it now, tomorrow I won’t have time!”
Yasmin collapsed into the pillows like a dying heroine. “You’re the worst assistant ever! That’s not how a true friend acts.”
Y/N smirked slightly. “You’ll look amazing even in a trash bag.”
“Appreciated,” Yasmin grinned, “but I’d rather not have Quinn embarrassed of me.”
“Yeah! The psychic who dyes his mohawk with the seasons.”
“Ah, right.” Y/N nodded. “Gotta admire the consistency. You two suit each other.”
Yasmin let out a self-satisfied sigh. “Speaking of partners… what about you and your genius? Has he asked you yet?”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “First of all, he’s not my genius. Our work is strictly professional.”
“Some people would disagree with that,” Yasmin murmured, amusement sparkling in her voice.
“Second of all,” Y/N went on, ignoring the heat creeping into her cheeks, “can you actually picture Isaac Night at a ball? Like really?”
“Okay, fair point,” Yasmin admitted. “But you still didn’t answer. Has he asked you?”
A pause. Y/N swallowed. “No.”
“But you’ve thought about it,” Yasmin grinned, her eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Like I said… it’s purely professional,” Y/N lied, though she knew Yasmin had already seen through her.
The past month really had been nothing but a rollercoaster. They no longer met every night, but they still found each other—in empty hallways, in the library, in the woods, sometimes even in each other’s rooms when the chance arose. And, of course, in Iago Tower, where all masks and clothes fell away. There, skin to skin, they lived through what both of them kept trying to deny—only to return to it again and again.
Every drop of blood gave her a rush of strength, intoxicating and new. The sun still hurt, but her eyes gleamed with sharper clarity. Her body reacted faster, moved lighter, healed quicker. Food still tasted bland, but no longer sat heavy on her tongue. And when it came to physical training—she was suddenly ahead of everyone. People noticed. Even Evellyne’s gang, after the library incident, backed off. It was as if they finally decided she wasn’t worth provoking anymore.
Y/N felt… freer. Stronger. She wasn’t sure if it was right, but for the first time in years, she wasn’t afraid to meet people’s eyes.
And Isaac? They weren’t together, but they weren’t apart either. There was no definition—no promise, no title, no “us.” And yet, every time she was alone, she instinctively expected him to appear. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt his breath on her skin. He was her addiction and her comfort—both forbidden and unstoppable.
Y/N kept telling herself their connection was nothing more than an experiment, just work, just blood. But deep down she knew—they’d already crossed the line of no return.
She shook her head, trying not to dwell on the thought.
“…And third: I’m only going because I promised you. To soak up the atmosphere, dance with you. And then I’m out.” Y/N shut the magazine and sprawled on the bed as if to end the topic for good.
Yasmin studied her. “Out? From what?”
“From who, more like.” Y/N hugged a pillow tight against her chest, as if it could shield her. “There’s a chance my father might show up.”
“You think? You’re on his blacklist right now,” Yasmin raised a brow. “But honestly, it’d be worth seeing. Maybe that’s where you got your grumpy aura.”
“Haha,” Y/N shot back, no trace of humor in her voice. “It’s not funny. If he comes, it’ll be a disaster. And he will come, because he’s one of the main sponsors of Nevermore Academy.”
Yasmin propped herself on her elbows, her face softening. “Then tell me. I get that he’s not the model parent, but you never really talk about him. Always vague. Like you don’t want me asking. Is it really that bad?”
Y/N stayed silent. Inside, everything churned. She wanted to open up, but the thought scared her. “He’s not someone you’d ever want to know deeper,” she said quietly. “He’s strict. Unyielding. Everything is about duty, discipline. If you make a mistake, you don’t deserve a second chance.”
“So, like a general?” Yasmin tried to lighten the mood.
“Worse.” Y/N lowered her gaze. “He always expected me to be exactly what he imagined. I could never just… be me. Nothing I did was ever enough.”
Silence stretched before Yasmin reached out and touched her shoulder gently. “And if he does come? What’s the worst that could happen?”
“That he’ll see me. Recognize me,” Y/N whispered, her voice breaking. “That he’ll find out what I am. What I’ve become. He wouldn’t understand. He never would.”
Yasmin watched her for a long moment, then sighed. “You know you can be a total drama queen sometimes, right? But… I get it. Still, Y/N, this isn’t about him. This ball is about us. About you finally putting on something sparkly and dancing with me. Your dad? He can show up if he wants. I don’t care what he thinks. I know who you are. And that’s what matters.”
For the first time in a while, Y/N smiled, tired but genuine. “Thanks, Yas.”
“Come on. Besides, your little experiments with Isaac are clearly working—otherwise you wouldn’t be walking around without sunglasses and looking healthier than ever. Maybe your dad will end up begging him for help.”
Y/N groaned. “I hate you.”
“No, you love me,” Yasmin grinned, tossing a pillow at her.
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On Saturday morning the girls got up early and headed to the front gates, where the bus was waiting. The air was sharp, morning fog still clung to the trees, and their breath came out in little clouds. Their thin jackets had been swapped for warmer coats, but even so, it wasn’t enough against the chill. Y/N pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, hoping the trip into town wouldn’t drag out longer than necessary.
“If I don’t find a decent dress, I’m not going to the ball at all,” Yasmin muttered, already complaining that her fingers were freezing.
“Worst case, we’ll duck into that café for something warm,” Y/N nodded.
Before they could continue, footsteps joined them. A couple Y/N only knew from stories appeared. Shuhua—a siren with hair as white as fresh snow, who’d won this year’s Poe Cup and was rumored to be able to throw even the toughest opponents off balance with her song. Beside her was Leo, a gorgon, tall and quiet, always with a cap pulled low over his brow—for safety, since his gaze could turn people to stone, though he liked to joke about it.
“Hey, there you are!” Yasmin waved brightly. “Shu, Leo—this is Y/N. I guess you only know her in passing, right?”
Y/N gave a small, hesitant smile. “Yeah, we’ve passed each other in the halls.”
Shuhua extended her hand, her grip warm and firm. “Then let’s fix that. Besides, Yas never shuts up about you, so I’m curious if you’re really the stick-in-the-mud she says you are.”
“Hey!” Yasmin protested, but Shuhua just laughed, winking at her.
Leo nodded in greeting. “Glad to finally meet you. Don’t worry,” he added with a deadpan expression, “I’m in a good mood, so I won’t turn you to stone.”
Y/N gave a small smile, uncertain if it was a joke. “That’s a relief. Shopping would be tricky if I were a statue.”
“Well, you’d make a great mannequin,” Shuhua teased, and Leo chuckled.
The conversation drifted toward the ball, dresses, and Shuhua’s insistence that she still hadn’t found shoes because everything looked “too basic.” Y/N listened, trying to chime in, but it felt more like Yasmin’s circle—she was just a visitor.
Suddenly, behind her: “Boo!”
Yasmin jumped so violently that she instinctively disappeared—vanished into thin air.
“Wow!” Shuhua gasped. “She actually does that in reflex!”
“Quinn, you idiot!” Yasmin’s voice snapped from nowhere.
“Hey, it was cute!” came a laughing voice. Quinn—Yasmin’s extroverted psychic, the one she’d told Y/N about but she hadn’t properly met until now. The rumors were true—his mohawk was currently ink-blue, perfectly matched to the ball’s theme.
“Not funny,” Yasmin muttered when she reappeared, her face flushed red.
But Quinn just leaned close, slung an arm around her shoulders, and whispered, “Don’t worry. I promise next time I’ll scare you better.” He flashed that boyish grin, the kind that made it impossible to stay mad.
Laughter rippled through the group again, playful and light. Leo leaned over to kiss Shuhua’s silver hair, making her smile and squeeze his hand. Yasmin reached back to Quinn, like he’d belonged to her all along.
And Y/N’s heart ached. So that’s what it would be like, if she and Isaac were a real couple. They could tease, hold each other without hesitation, show affection through small, effortless gestures. They could go into town not as “allies in blood,” but as two people who simply belonged together. Walk into the ball side by side, dance, laugh.
But they weren’t a normal couple. They weren’t really a couple at all. And yet, her heart longed for it. Was it selfish to want? Maybe. But at that moment, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
The bus honked, and students began filing in. The group slipped among the others, their laughter carrying all the way to the driver. Y/N took a seat by the window, Yasmin right in front of her, immediately turning to Quinn beside her. Shuhua and Leo slid into seats further back, still holding hands.
The doors were already closing when someone rushed inside—Isaac Night, breathless. His coat was unbuttoned, hair messy, eyes dark. Y/N’s breath caught—there was an empty seat beside her. But Isaac didn’t look her way. He strode straight down the aisle, past her like she was invisible, and sank into the very back row, where Morticia and Gomez already sat.
Yasmin shot her a quick glance—questioning, almost reproachful—before turning back to her conversation with Quinn.
Y/N stared out the window, throat tight, breath shallow. The bus lurched forward, and she felt Isaac’s presence behind her. He hadn’t looked at her. But still, he was there—too close to ignore, too far to reach.
The engine hummed, voices rose around her, but Y/N pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Outside, bare trees, fog-draped meadows, crooked rooftops of tiny villages passed by. And yet, she was hyperaware of every motion behind her. She didn’t need to turn—she knew Isaac was there, silent, sunk in the shadows.
“Y/N?” Yasmin nudged her. “Are you listening?”
“Hm? Yeah, sorry.” She startled, as if caught doing something forbidden.
“I said Shu wants to check out a boutique by the square first.”
“Right. Sure,” Y/N nodded absently. She sneaked another glance at the glass, trying to catch Isaac’s reflection. But the angle, the play of light swallowed him whole.
He was there. But untouchable.
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They arrived in Jericho around noon. It wasn’t a large town, but it pulsed with life—streets lined with old houses bearing shop signs, cafés smelling of coffee and cinnamon, tucked-away boutiques offering everything from ball gowns to bizarre costume collections.
The group headed straight into the first shop. Yasmin and Shuhua eagerly dove among the racks, Leo sat on a chair by the mirrors, feigning suffering, but every time Shuhua called to him, he smiled and praised her without hesitation. Quinn tried on ties, striking poses in front of the mirror, making Yasmin shake her head in amusement.
Y/N moved quietly between the hangers, brushing her fingers over delicate fabrics, but nothing caught her eye. Either it seemed too tacky, or too far from what she imagined. She left each boutique empty-handed, while the others emerged with bags—Yasmin with a beautiful dress adorned with pearls, Shuhua with golden sandals, and Leo with a black blazer that fit him perfectly.
“Alright, café?” Quinn suggested as they left the third shop. “I’m starving like a werewolf.”
But Y/N hesitated. “Hey, you guys go ahead. I’ll check a bit further down, maybe I’ll find something that fits me.”
“Want me to come with you?” Yasmin asked, but Y/N shook her head.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”
The group disappeared into the crowd, and Y/N slipped into a quieter part of town. The alleys here were narrower, quieter, paved with old cobblestones, with small shops tucked between buildings, bearing weathered signs. She found it odd that she hadn’t glimpsed Isaac at all since the bus ride. Not on the street, not in the boutiques. Where had he gone? What was he doing here?
Her steps halted in front of an antique shop with a chipped sign. The door had a metal handle, the window display filled with dust and scattered books, jewelry, and candlesticks. She hesitated briefly, then pushed the door open.
A bell chimed above her, immediately hitting her with a peculiar smell—a mix of dust, metal, and something musty, almost acrid.
The aisles between the shelves were narrow and shadowed. She browsed the items until she came across a book on carnivorous plants. She opened it, letting her fingers trace the carefully drawn illustrations. It reminded her of the gardening club, which now in winter had moved to the school greenhouse. The only activity that ever brought her peace—there, among the soil and plants, she could forget for a moment the ridicule and bullying. But this year she had barely gone once.
“I don’t remember you ever failing at botany,” a voice said behind her.
Y/N jerked her head around. Ezra stood there.
His light hair stuck out in all directions, eyes sharp—vampire as it should be—but without the arrogant chill she knew from others. He was different. He had never pushed her away, never looked down on her. She had rarely seen him, as he was a year ahead and many of their classes were at different times. He looked good—actually better than when he was muddy from work. She often saw him training with Shuhua, since they were on the same Poe Cup team.
“Ezra?” she breathed. “What are you doing here?”
He smiled, shrugging. “Let’s say I like old things. Sometimes I find something for the club.”
“That makes sense.” She closed the book and gave a timid smile, embarrassed that she hadn’t visited their club even once. “I… just saw this on carnivorous plants. It reminded me of the gardening club.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “We missed you there. You were usually buried in work and didn’t notice much else. But you had a knack for it. I think the plants liked you.”
“Or maybe I liked them,” she replied quietly.
“Same difference,” he smiled. He watched her a moment, then added, “Will you come visit us sometime? You know the door is always open for you.”
Y/N froze. Words she hadn’t expected to hear from him.
“I…” she cleared her throat to mask her embarrassment. “I’ve got a lot going on right now.”
“I figured,” he said simply. “But it’s nice to see you again, Y/N.”
His voice wasn’t artificially encouraging. It was calm, genuine, almost quiet—as if he didn’t need to show off. And for the first time that day, Y/N felt truly seen. She smiled and lightly tapped his shoulder.
“And you, looking for something for yourself? Or your partner?” she teased, finally relaxing for the first time that day.
“Ouch,” he feigned, “you want me to say yes, don’t you? All the ladies unfortunately turned me down. Score: zero for me.”
“Believe it. Gardeners apparently get paid poorly, and girls go for rich boys.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry. If I hire you, you’ll be in for a treat.” Now she made him laugh.
Ezra gestured toward the door. “You know what? I can walk with you to a few more shops. At least I’ll hold your bag if you find something.”
“I won’t find anything. I’ve given up.”
“Then I’ll hold your mood,” he said lightly, smiling.
They exited the antique shop together from the opposite side onto the street. Y/N’s eyes drifted to a display window beside them, and her breath caught. On the mannequin stood a dress—dark indigo, with a few light yellow camellias sewn in that shimmered under the light. High waist, slightly dropped bodice, long skirt that would flow like water in motion. Exactly what she had dreamed of, yet never imagined finding.
“Wow,” Ezra said, noticing her gaze. “Those will fit you before you even try them on.”
Y/N felt her cheeks burn. But before she could answer, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.
“Interesting choice. I’d say… tacky, for desperate princesses.”
Y/N spun around. Isaac stood there, breathless, holding a large box. His hair was tousled, face shadowed—but his eyes shone coldly.
Ezra looked at him, surprised. “I didn’t know Night went shopping.”
Isaac measured him head to toe, corners of his mouth curling into a frosty smile. “And I didn’t know Y/N kept such interesting company. How much did she offer you to guard her on this little trip?”
There was an edge in his voice that Ezra ignored. He simply nodded slightly and said calmly, “A few kisses on the cheek and an invitation to the ball.”
What on earth is he doing? Y/N thought in alarm, watching Isaac’s reaction with wide eyes. Isaac just smirked.
“I think that dress would suit her,” Ezra continued.
“But not everyone looks good being ridiculous,” Isaac retorted without hesitation.
Y/N felt the tension between them. Ezra straightened, composed, unaffected. “Alright, I’ll go find a tie—preferably one that won’t look silly. Y/N, it was nice seeing you. Good luck with your choice.”
His voice was warm, naturally kind, and Y/N watched him leave a moment longer than she should have. When he departed, she was left alone with Isaac, who shifted the box to one hand and slowly approached her.
“What are you doing here?” she breathed.
“Looking for something for my sister,” he replied simply, offering no explanation.
“For Françoise?” she asked cautiously.
Isaac looked at her in a way that made her spine shiver. He was silent—and that silence was worse than any answer. Whenever it came to his sister, he shut himself off like a book no one could read.
“And why isn’t she getting it herself?” she finally blurted.
Isaac smirked—that typical grin that felt more like a knife than a smile. “Because I have better taste.”
His gaze returned to the window, where her dream dress stood. Then, as if nothing, he added, “Although… that one is a bit tacky.”
Y/N felt her stomach clench. Because he was lying. She knew it. And yet it hurt—because she liked it. And in that moment, his comment felt like a direct hit.
“That’s fine,” she said finally, dryly, her own voice betraying her. “Because I don’t like it anyway.”
But Isaac’s barely-there smile told her he knew she was lying.
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The hallways buzzed with life—heels clacking, fabrics rustling, laughter and nervous exclamations. The girls borrowed curling irons and jewelry from each other, bedroom doors opened and closed in a constant race, and the air was thick with perfumes, hairspray, and anticipation. It was that peculiar mix of chaos and excitement that always accompanied a ball night.
Yasmin stood in front of the mirror, turning from side to side. Her black dress with a deep neckline fit so perfectly it seemed as if it had been made just for her. The delicate sparkles caught the candlelight, and the waves of fabric blended seamlessly with her dark skin. She looked… phenomenal.
Meanwhile, Y/N had put on her white lace dress that she had brought from home. It was nice, certainly—festive, light, with a subtle sheen. But next to Yasmin’s, it looked ordinary. Lacking that spark. Missing the sensual touch she longed for.
“I really don’t get why you didn’t pick them,” Yasmin sighed, brushing the final touches of eyeshadow around her own eyes. “The ones in the window were perfect.”
Y/N swallowed, lowering her gaze. “I told you, I didn’t like them that much.”
The words sounded harsh in her ears, like sand scraping between teeth.
“Sure,” Yasmin smirked, raising an eyebrow. “If you say so.” She pulled back and theatrically waved her hand. “Anyway—the makeup’s done. Tadaaa!”
Y/N looked into the mirror. Soft smoky eyes, subtly highlighted cheeks, and lips shaded a pinkish-red. Yasmin had left her natural, but added a flair that gave her an entirely new spark. For a moment, Y/N hardly recognized herself.
A knock at the door interrupted them. Yasmin rushed to open it—and there stood Quinn. His tailored jacket was sleek and dark, but what stood out most was the bow tie: pastel blue, matching Yasmin’s nails perfectly.
“You look…” Yasmin gasped, and Quinn only smiled, slightly shy. “Like someone who’s very lucky,” he added, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe.
They hugged—naturally, lightly—and Y/N, at that moment, knew they needed a moment for themselves.
“We’ll go ahead, okay?” Yasmin turned to her with an apologetic smile. “But we’ll meet you there, I promise.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Y/N nodded, though a small sting of solitude pricked her—not envy, but loneliness.
The door closed, and she was left alone in the room. The girls downstairs had already gathered; music played, someone laughed hysterically, another rushed around with smudged makeup. And she… thought.
Maybe she shouldn’t go. Maybe her father really would be there—and what if he didn’t even greet her? What if he did what he always did—look at her, but not really see her?
Y/N rolled her eyes—surely Yasmin had forgotten something. After all, her handbags were capable of swallowing half a wardrobe.
But when she opened the door, no one stood there. Only a large, carefully tied box. It sat right at the threshold, with a silk ribbon.
Y/N dragged it inside, slightly out of breath, and carefully untied the bow. The lid lifted—and she saw what was inside.
Her lips curved into a smile on their own.
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They were a bit tighter than she expected, but nothing she couldn’t endure. She simply wasn’t used to corsets—it constricted her chest, every breath shallowly stifled, as if reminding her that beauty came at a cost. The fabric lightly scratched her ribs, but when she looked in the mirror, she had to admit it was worth it. The material hugged her body like a dark ocean, the translucent patterns on her shoulders giving an illusion of fragility, while the tightly cinched waist gave her a shape she had never had before. She felt different—not like the Y/N the world usually saw, but like someone who could easily belong to that illustrious line she seemed destined for. Yet the constriction pricked her, like every tightened knot of the lacing.
She stepped out of the room and, with the other students, made her way to the main hall. From a distance, she could already hear the music—dark violins weaving through piano notes, the rhythm of a waltz mixed with a modern undertone. Once she passed through the doors, she froze.
The hall had been transformed beyond recognition. Dozens of crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, strings of pearls dripping from them, glinting like stars submerged in midnight. Every table was adorned with bowls containing shells, inside of which sat pearly white candles. Projections of ocean depths undulated across the walls—dark, hypnotic, with the occasional flash of a glowing jellyfish. The entire space smelled of a mixture of perfumes, roses, freshly polished wood, and alcohol secretly poured into the punch by students.
Dresses rustled, laughter mingled with music, some were already dancing, while others lingered in small groups, whispering about who had come with whom. It was perfect, almost like a fairy tale.
He stood near the main table, a glass of wine in hand. His hair, already streaked with gray, was tied back in a loose ponytail, strands lazily escaping around his face. He wore black trousers, a simple shirt, and a deep crimson vest that practically shouted he was deliberately ignoring the dress code. As if to show everyone that rules never applied to him. He was the one who paid the school and its troublemakers to keep her secret, and she knew he was fully aware of that.
Just seeing him enraged Y/N. That familiar cold face, those eyes that had never softened, not even when she was small. Memories rose unbidden: how he would look away when she couldn’t swallow even a drop of blood; how he stayed silent while her mother excused her weakness; how he moved around her as if she were a mistake. And now he stood there, confident, upright, as if the purest example of his lineage.
A burning, suffocating anger swelled in her chest. She pressed her lips into a thin line before sharply turning and heading to the punch table.
She poured herself a glass and lifted it to her lips. The ice-cold drink immediately cooled her inflamed throat. It shimmered with pearly white hues and smelled faintly of coconut. It was a moment of calm, a pleasant contrast to the fire still burning inside her. She needed something to keep herself together—or she might shatter.
Y/N tried to appear indifferent to the crowd around her, but her eyes kept drifting back to the dance floor. Yasmin twirled in Quinn’s arms, laughing with him, their lightness contagious. Shuhua let Leo lead her, his hand gently resting on her back, and even through his cap, which hid his snake-like hair, he radiated confidence and calm.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Francoise—her hair intricately braided, tied with a ribbon that sparkled like liquid sapphire in the light. Dressed in a gown that made her look like a princess, she laughed carefreely with her friends. She was so different from Isaac. There was a resemblance in her eyes, but while Isaac was quiet, biting, reserved—Francoise bloomed in full light, clearly savoring every moment. Y/N swallowed the remainder of her drink with a bitter edge.
“Hey, careful there, or you’ll spill it,” a voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She turned to see Ezra.
He was in a black suit that fit him perfectly. His collar casually unbuttoned and his slightly tousled hair added a charm accentuated by his relaxed smile.
“Good to see you again,” Y/N said sincerely.
“Likewise,” he smiled, holding out a glass to her. “If you want some alcohol, I can top it up. The punch is weak.”
“Why not,” she shrugged, tilting the cup. A drop of red wine mingled with the white punch, forming a slowly swirling spiral.
Ezra glanced at her sideways, casually, but the question slipped out directly: “So… Night’s still upset about last time, when he ambushed you like that? Because otherwise, I really can’t imagine his style.”
Y/N swallowed. She knew someone would eventually bring it up. “No,” she shook her head, “we… we’re working on a project together.”
“Project?” he raised an eyebrow.
“A secret one,” she smirked mischievously, though tension tightened inside her. “He wasn’t exactly happy to see you either.”
Ezra shrugged. “Maybe I once slightly erased some of his notes by accident. From lunch, of course.” She rolled her eyes but chuckled. Ezra measured her glance, but eventually let it go. “I really like your dress.”
Her eyes shimmered briefly. “Oh, thank you. Someone… mysteriously delivered it to me.”
“That would really interest me,” Ezra chuckled, leaning slightly toward her, as if to add something more.
But at that moment, her stomach twisted. She felt a cold breath at her back, and a shiver ran down her spine. That voice—she recognized it immediately before he even spoke:
She froze. She turned—and there he stood. Her father.
“If you’ll allow,” he said to Ezra with a cold courtesy, “I’d like to speak with my daughter alone.”
Ezra glanced briefly at Y/N as if asking her if she wanted this, but she only nodded timidly. She had no strength to resist. Ezra, with a reluctant smile, stepped aside.
Her father led her aside, away from the main event, into an empty hallway beside the hall. His step was decisive, firm, his presence heavy.
“I’ve heard,” he began sharply, “that you attacked some students. Is that true?”
Y/N felt her blood rush to her face. “What?! That’s not true! They attacked me!” she blurted, her voice trembling with anger.
Her father’s eyes, behind red glasses, pierced her without revealing a thing. He was silent.
“They bullied me,” Y/N continued, her voice breaking. “For months. And no one did anything. No one. I… I couldn’t go on anymore!”
Silence. Then, calmly, almost indifferently: “I know about it.”
“I knew it was happening,” he repeated as if it were a simple fact.
It struck her like a punch. “And… and why? Why didn’t you do anything?!”
His face didn’t move; his eyes remained hard. No answer.
“You… you let them…” Y/N’s voice cracked. “You knew they were destroying me and you let them!”
“Because you’re not a vampire,” he finally said softly, the same phrase, but colder.
“That’s not true,” she countered. “I just… I have it harder. But I’m like you!”
“If you were half like me, we’d never have this conversation,” he shook his head. “I see no proof. Just an angry child.”
Each word tore her heart to pieces. She felt the ground fall away beneath her. Every word from her father cut deep into her chest, as if his voice alone proved she would never be enough. Her blood froze in her veins, her breath caught, and her temples throbbed. How could he know what had happened and not lift a finger? And why, now, amidst all these people, remind her that in his eyes she would never be anything but a failure?
She leaned against the cold stone wall, fists clenched, trying to suppress the heat in her eyes. Music still rang, laughter, the clinking of glasses—but it didn’t reach her, as if she were sealed under a bell jar. Everyone below danced, laughed, Yasmin chuckled at Quinn’s jokes… and she felt as if she stood at the edge of the world, alone, cut off.
She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. She couldn’t let her father break her. Not today, not in front of so many people. She lifted her head, determined to remain calm outwardly.
And at that very moment, while her heart still trembled with anger and despair, she saw him. Isaac.
He emerged from the crowd slowly, step by step, and it was as if even the music momentarily lost its rhythm. Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat. He looked unnaturally perfect—tailored suit, dark tie, a sharp, confident gaze. All the emotions her father had stirred in her now rearranged themselves—into tension, anticipation, something she couldn’t name.
He really was like a valiant knight. How could he always appear in the right place at the right time?! she thought, but this time she silently thanked every god she knew when she saw him.
When he caught her gaze, he moved directly toward her. Up close, she examined him carefully. He wore a black suit, cut exactly to fit. The jacket had a subtle velvet sheen, and against it, a dark blue tie gleamed, tied neatly—almost too perfectly—as if to prove to the world that he could also partake in a formal evening. His shoes were polished to reflect the flickering lights above the dance floor. But worst—or perhaps best, depending on the perspective—were his eyes. Cold, calculating, piercing. Like the night just before a storm.
Her father straightened immediately, his entire body rigid. “Who are you, to have the audacity to barge in here?” he barked.
Isaac merely smiled, and that audacity in his posture was so calm, it bordered on insulting. “Allow me to demonstrate.”
He reached under his shirt and produced a small glass vial hanging from a cord. Inside shimmered a dark red liquid. Without hesitation, he handed it to Y/N.
She held her breath. She looked at Isaac, who simply nodded calmly, and took the vial. The liquid tasted strange, heavy, almost metallic—but she recognized it instantly. It was his blood. Isaac’s.
She swallowed. And this time, nothing happened. No convulsions, no pain, no nausea. Just a rush of warmth, a gentle tremble in her fingertips, and then a feeling as if a light had been switched on inside her body.
Her father stared at her, incredulous, expecting her to collapse. “That’s a trick,” he growled.
“You’re welcome to verify,” Isaac replied, offering the vial back. A single drop remained inside.
Her father tasted it, immediately grimacing. But nothing else. He only shot Isaac a look of pure hatred, then at his daughter—and left silently, with a warning: “We will settle this later.” He realized they weren’t making fools of him. It was blood. And his daughter had drunk it.
They stood like that for a long moment, half in shock. Y/N felt her cheeks burn.
“Nice dress,” Isaac said dryly.
“I thought you didn’t like it,” she breathed, her voice more wounded than intended. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I said it looked ridiculous on the mannequin, that’s different,” he corrected, his gaze softening for a brief instant. “Your friend warned me as soon as I entered the hall. I knew my intellect and pure courage would be needed to get you out of this situation.” Then he raised the empty vial. “I carry this for emergencies. Today was one of them.”
It clicked. Her heart skipped a beat. “So… you wanted to make sure I didn’t look ridiculous in the dress, and that I wasn’t in danger?”
It was him. Of course it was him. No one else.
Y/N stared at him, unable to comprehend his dual nature—sarcastic, biting, and then suddenly the one who delivers the dress of her dreams.
“Why did you come to the ball?” she asked softly. “You don’t want to be here.”
He looked at her long enough to send shivers down her spine. No answer. He only extended his hand. “Come with me.”
She was confused but placed her hand in his. She expected him to lead her onto the dance floor. But Isaac moved through the crowd, between pillars and decorated tables, to the back corridors. In the labyrinth of dark hallways she barely knew by rumor, he stopped in front of an old painting.
“What…?” she wanted to ask, but Isaac only pressed lightly. The painting shifted open, revealing a hidden passage.
How could he know about this?
He led her up narrow, ancient stairs that creaked beneath their steps. And then—the tower.
Y/N gasped. It was unrecognizable. Instead of cold emptiness, dark floral garlands hung, candles cast golden reflections, and a gramophone sat on a small table. Isaac gestured, and from a distance, the record began to turn. The room filled with slow, velvety music, evoking another time, another world.
Isaac stood before her, in that perfect suit, in a tower transformed beyond recognition—and Y/N felt as though she had stepped into a foreign dream.
The gramophone crackled as the needle touched the record. It wasn’t the hall’s music—no cheerful waltz, no pompous orchestra. It was slow, smooth, almost intimate.
Isaac wordlessly offered his hand. His fingers were cold, but the grip was firm and decisive. Y/N hesitated for a moment—then placed her hand in his, letting herself be drawn closer. He placed his other hand on her waist, just above the corset line.
The corset constricted her, keeping her from breathing fully, but now she didn’t even notice the discomfort. Every touch from him was louder than any protest of her body.
They began to move. Slowly, almost timidly. He led, she followed—but it wasn’t the dance they had learned in lessons. It wasn’t about steps. It was about tension, about the space between them shrinking with every step.
She felt the dress brush against his trousers. How his chest brushed her shoulder with every movement. How her breath shortened as he leaned just a little closer, until she could hear his exhale.
Candlelight cast their silhouettes on the stone wall. The music, the crackling record, and their quiet steps—that was all the world contained.
In her mind, Y/N thought: if this isn’t a dance, she didn’t know what was. There was something heavy, indescribable in his eyes, and she wished this moment would never end. That their bodies could continue spinning in that small, forgotten world.
His gaze fell on her again. There was something in his eyes that pierced her skin—it was an intensity she could barely bear. As if he didn’t just see her from the outside, but from within.
Then his voice cut through the silence. Low, trembling, unexpectedly serious:
And the spell shattered. She stepped back, letting go of his hand. The sudden emptiness stabbed at her.
“What’s happening?” she asked. He didn’t understand and stopped the music with a wave of his hand.
She stayed silent for a moment. Isaac took a deep breath, and Y/N couldn’t hold back. “What’s going on? I really don’t know, Isaac! I don’t understand you, I don’t understand us. One moment you’re… so close, I feel like you’d move heaven for me, and the next you’re an icy wall I’ll never climb. I don’t want to always be on this rollercoaster.”
“Do you think you haven’t climbed that wall?” he whispered.
“I don’t see it that way,” she replied. “Maybe it all happened fast, but… sometimes I don’t feel warmth. Only effort. And cold.”
Something in his gaze broke. “Do you think this is all about you? Day and night I try to understand why your body endures what no other does. If it can be understood, healed. And you complain I don’t give you enough attention?”
“I just want,” she blurted, “for you to open up to me more. Even just a little.”
“And the fact I let you bite me, that’s not enough?” he snapped.
“It’s not about the blood!” her voice trembled. “It’s that sometimes you act like you won’t let me near you at all. And I don’t know where I stand.”
Isaac froze for a moment. Then it burst out, raw and unprepared: “You want the truth? I hate that I have to lie. I hate that I have to work day and night like a horse just to find no answers. But it’s not true that I hate normies. I actually wish my sister were one. Because then she wouldn’t have to live like Hyde.”
The words dissipated in the tower like smoke. Y/N stood, breath caught in her throat. “Your sister… is Hyde?”
“Yes,” he swallowed. And this time, for the first time, she saw his eyes glisten. “Hydes die young. Women live longer than men, but they never reach old age. And I—” he faltered, his voice breaking, “I mustn’t lose her.”
“You want to figure out how not to awaken it in her?” she asked quietly.
“It’s too late for that,” he shook his head. “I want to erase it completely from her.”
Y/N shivered. It was insane. Impossible, even. You can’t erase the fact that someone was born a certain way. Once an outcast, always an outcast. And yet… she knew he would do anything for her. That he would overcome even this impossibility.
“If I don’t figure it out soon,” he gasped, “I’ll lose her.” He rubbed his eyes sharply, as if to hide tears.
Y/N reached out, caressing his face. “How can I help you?”
Isaac took a deep breath. “I found someone in the city today who can build a machine. But it costs a fortune. And I need it fast. Can you get me enough money?”
“Fine,” she nodded without hesitation. “But I don’t have that much. I’ll have to ask my father—and I doubt he’ll give me anything. If not… I’ll take it myself.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“I’m doing this for your sister,” she said.
Isaac extended his hand, fingers tentative at first, as if unsure whether he could. Y/N felt her heart race—the slightest movement stirred a bigger storm than all their previous clashes. When his hand finally clasped hers, it was firm but not hard. He guided her a step closer, until there was no space left between them.
Then he moved again—slowly, carefully. He raised a hand, fingertips brushing her face. His touch was cold, but surprisingly gentle. His thumb traced her cheekbone, as if wanting to know her again, this time without rush, without fear. His eyes were suddenly different—shadowed, but open, without the usual mask of sarcasm.
Y/N realized she had stopped breathing. Everything in the room went silent—the gramophone played, but she didn’t notice it, only the unexpected, tender pressure of his hand on her face.
It wasn’t the hungry, urgent kiss she knew from him—when he pressed her to madness, when it seemed they both fell into the abyss of desire and fury. This one was different. Gentle. Trembling. Almost restrained. As if he kissed her not to claim her, but because he had to—because otherwise, he couldn’t bear it.
His lips barely touched hers, hesitant, fragile, yet it felt as if the world had stopped. There was no anger, no desperate need. There was truth.
Y/N felt her chest tighten, but this time not with pain. For the first time, it didn’t feel like a struggle, but calm. That she was being kissed not by the man who drove her to madness, but by the one who showed her what he would never say aloud.
And that’s why it was stronger than ever before. For the first time in a long while, she felt relief.
Isaac stayed close, with a slight smile, whispering: “Be careful. Your father’s a real pain in the ass.”
“The worst,” she smiled back. And for a moment, the world shrank to just the tower—and just the two of them.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Guys this chapter is so long, took me whole day to write it down! Comments and likes will be appreciated! Thank you again for ur support!! Love u sm yall<333
I have 3 questions to ask you:
1. I have an idea for wednesday ff with multiple canon characters x ocs, would you be interested about it?
2. I have some face claims for some characters on this ff, should i post them? One thing about me is that i suck at describing characters haha!
3. Once i finish crimson circuit and one shots that were requested i wanna also deep dive in my original story. Is it a good idea posting it here tho?
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