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The moon hung low over Paris, a silver coin pressed against a midnight sky.
From the balcony of her apartment overlooking the Seine, Aiyana Vale—or Aiyana Vail as her forged passport now named her—watched the city breathe. Paris was a waltz of perfume and sin, of laughter and shadows. Beneath its glittering heart, she could hear everything: the hum of traffic, the sigh of lovers, the flutter of blood in a thousand throats.
She smiled faintly. Humanity had no idea how deliciously fragile it was.
A month.
It had been a month since she'd awoken from death, her veins burning with cursed eternity. A month since she'd left Seoul, her name buried under marble and mourning.
Her family believed her ashes rested beside cherry blossoms on Namsan Hill. Sometimes she wondered if her mother still visited, whispering to the wind. But the thought no longer ached—it simply was. Like a book she had finished reading.
Aiyana had traded sorrow for silk, fear for power.
---
Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass doors leading to her balcony. The face that stared back was flawless—skin pale as moonlight, lips stained wine-red, eyes like liquid garnet when the hunger stirred, hair now dyed deep blue more longer flowing like waves. She wore a satin robe, the color of dried blood, its folds whispering against her bare legs.
Once, she would have been embarrassed by her own beauty. Now she wielded it like a weapon.
They all fall the same way, she thought, tracing a fingertip down her neck. Heart first.
The air rippled, carrying the scent of the city: roasted chestnuts, perfume, spilled wine—and beneath it, the pulsing music of human hearts. Each one a candle flickering in the dark, waiting to be snuffed or savored.
Aiyana turned away from the window, the hem of her robe whispering against the marble floor. The apartment around her gleamed with a kind of elegant decay—velvet drapes, golden light, and shadows that never quite left. It had once belonged to a Countess who vanished under "mysterious circumstances." Aiyana had simply taken her place, her charm opening every lock.
On the table, a crystal glass held crimson red liquid—human blood, laced with French red wine. Her latest indulgence.
She swirled it thoughtfully, the scent intoxicating.
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Aiyana's New Life
By day, she was a ghost—a name whispered in fashion galleries and private clubs, a muse for painters who couldn't remember her face afterward. Her voice could charm any doorman, her eyes could undo the proudest noble.
By night, she hunted.
Not for sport. For art.
She fed rarely, elegantly. Never from the same throat twice. Never enough to kill—unless they begged her to.
The city whispered of her: La Femme Rouge. Men claimed to have seen her in alleys or at operas, a vision with honey brown glowing eyes and a smile that made them forget their names.
None ever found her twice.
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The Awakening Within
Aiyana walked to the mirror and watched as her eyes shifted from honey to deep scarlet. Her reflection no longer horrified her. In fact, she found it thrilling—the symbol of everything she had become.
Her hunger, once terrifying, now felt like an extension of her soul—a symphony she alone could conduct. She could sense life in the air, smell emotion in the blood. Fear tasted sharp like citrus. Desire, warm like wine. Guilt, bitter and metallic.
Tonight, she craved desire.
---
The streets below shimmered with rain. Aiyana slipped into a black coat, her movements graceful as water. Her heels clicked against the marble stairs as she descended from her penthouse into the pulsing veins of Paris.
The clubs near Montmartre were alive—music, laughter, and perfume thick enough to drown in. Mortals swayed under the neon lights, unaware that predators walked among them.
Aiyana entered Le Loup Noir, her favorite haunt. The moment she stepped inside, the room changed. Eyes turned. Conversations faltered. The air thickened with fascination and unease.
She didn't need to speak. Her presence did the talking.
At the bar, a man watched her. Early thirties, tousled hair, an artist's hands. His heartbeat quickened as she smiled.
She approached like smoke. "You look as though you're waiting for trouble," she said in perfect French, voice low and velvet-smooth.
He laughed nervously. "Maybe I am."
Aiyana leaned close enough for him to feel her breath against his ear. "Then you've found her."
He blinked, dazed. "Have we met before?"
"Perhaps… in a dream," she whispered.
They danced. She moved like silk over flame—every touch a temptation, every glance a promise. When he kissed her, she tasted his pulse. The hunger stirred, deep and ancient.
But this time, she didn't resist.
She led him into the alley behind the club, rain glistening on her skin. The scent of his blood filled her senses, and for a heartbeat she felt human again—warm, desired, alive.
Then she sank her fangs into his neck.
The world exploded in crimson and gold. Pleasure and power intertwined until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. When she withdrew, the man sagged against her, dazed but smiling. She wiped his memory with a whisper, leaving only a dream of a perfect night.
Aiyana licked the last drop from her lips, exhaling softly. "Merci," she murmured, before melting back into the crowd.
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World Building — The Hidden Order
Paris was no stranger to monsters. In her short immortal life, Aiyana had already sensed others—old ones, quiet ones. They lingered in the catacombs beneath the city, in abandoned châteaus, in the gilded halls of the powerful. Some were ancient vampires who considered humans cattle. Others masqueraded as priests, nobles, or politicians.
They called themselves The Dark Order—a secret society governing all vampires across Europe and some parts of China and America. They operated under ancient laws: no public feeding, no turning without permission, no exposure of their kind.
Aiyana's existence broke all three.
She had no sire, no master, no allegiance. Her rebirth had been a cosmic accident—a merging of science, lightning, and cursed blood. She was a wild flame, unclaimed, unpredictable.
And the Order would not ignore that forever.
She could already feel their eyes watching her from the dark corners of the city. Their messengers—the ravens that sometimes perched on her balcony—had left warnings written in crimson wax.
"Join or be hunted."
Aiyana only laughed when she read them.
Let them come. She was no one's servant. Not anymore.
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The Vixen and the Void
Later that night, she returned home. The city slept beneath her balcony, unaware that a goddess of blood and desire stood above it.
She poured herself another glass of crimson wine and leaned against the railing, watching the moon slide behind the clouds. Her hair danced in the wind, her smile sharp as a blade.
For the first time, she felt something like peace—not the mortal kind that came from love or safety, but the immortal satisfaction of control.
She had been prey all her life—weak, dying, afraid. Now the roles had reversed. She was the storm, and humanity was the candle.
Still, sometimes—when the wind carried the faint scent of cherry blossoms—Aiyana felt the echo of the girl she had been. The one who believed in kindness, faith, and love.
But that girl was gone.
"Rest well, little blossom," she whispered to the wind in Korean, her accent soft and perfect. "The night belongs to me now."
As if in answer, thunder rumbled far away, and the moon bled through the clouds once more—blood red and bright.
The secret to a rich life is to have more beginnings than endings, it will be scary but you will find out what you are made of cause the best opportunities to achieve comes at the most unexpected times. 🌹
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End of Chapter 3