"Oh, I did," the vampire said simply. He gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder. Raising a hand, he roughly ruffled his own hair, pulling the dark, time-worn strands back as though trying to reveal a hidden mark embedded on his skull. "You see this mark... it constantly reminds me—"
"Shut up. I'm not going to stand here and listen to your nostalgic nonsense."
Cruxius's voice sliced through the air like a switchblade—cold, painfully abrupt, and thickly laced with pure disgust.
The vampire paused mid-motion, his hand still hovering near a faded sigil severely scorched into his scalp. His smile didn't falter—but something deep within it darkened. It hardened into solid ice.
"You are very similar to her," the vampire muttered softly. It was a whisper brushing right against the jagged edge of contempt. "Impulsive. Highly emotional. Just like she was in her final, pathetic moments."
Cruxius blinked. Just once.
Then came the violent shift.
He took a single, deliberate step forward.
