Far from the café, Dr. Miroslava Novak's office rose on the fourteenth floor of a brutalist tower, lit only by salt lamps that washed the walls in a crepuscular amber glow.
Past eight in the evening, when most patients were already home, the rear window unlatched without a touch.
Anna Viktorie emerged from the shadows as if they were her own continents—draped in black silk, knee-high boots, her coat flowing like a raven's wing.
Miroslava stood waiting, unsurprised. Her elegance held the stillness of sculpture. In her moss-green eyes flickered a longevity that mirrored Anna's—an ancient kinship.
"It was reckless to leave a witness," said the doctor, her voice sharper than ice against bone. "Your young accountant is now trapped between human suspicion and terrors he can't name."
"You're right," Anna replied, leaning lazily against the bookshelf. "I didn't intend to touch him. I was… already somewhat satisfied that night. I left the rest to fate. It seems fate spared him."
"Fate, or your curiosity." Miroslava closed her notebook with a silent snap. "Listen well. Liam trusts me. He's said nothing, but the longer you watch him, the more cracks you'll open. And through cracks, dangerous questions leak."
Anna tilted her head, intrigued.
"I need his address. I want to make sure he doesn't talk."
"Do you mean to watch him… or bind him?" Miroslava's tone turned dryly amused. "Remember the Council's rules. If he becomes a problem—end him. If he becomes something worse—his blood is on your hands."
Tension vibrated between them like a taut string.
At last, Miroslava slid a small card across the desk, the address written in immaculate script.
"Don't delay, Anna. The city breathes superstition these days. One spark, and we all burn."
Anna pocketed the card, her nod hovering between gratitude and threat, and glided out.
Silence swallowed the room; the lamp flickered, restless.
Miles away, Liam Thomas sat before the yellow light of his desk.
Browser tabs multiplied—archives, occult blogs, digitized Victorian photographs.
A feverish certainty drove him: he had to prove Anna Viktorie was real.
And then—he found her.
A sepia image, a bonfire rising in a muddy square.
Inquisitors in torn robes, and tied to a stake—a woman of translucent skin and impossible serenity.
The caption read: Elena de Havilland, alleged witch, Vancouver, 1893.
Next to her, barely in focus, stood another woman—same pale hair, same ice-blue eyes, same defiant curve of the lips.
His heart slammed against his throat.
Cold sweat slid down his spine.
For a moment, the screen darkened; his reflection and hers merged.
"Is it her… or her ancestor?" he whispered. The question sounded absurd, but truth—like the doctor had said—doesn't wait for invitations. It claws its way in.
He slammed the laptop shut. The silence thickened, full of unseen presences.
Midnight found him lying awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
At 12:03, exhaustion dragged him under.
He didn't see the shadow that perched on the narrow ledge outside his window—where no human could stand.
She pressed her palm against the glass. Frost bloomed beneath her touch.
The latch resisted, so she closed her eyes and sent her will past the barrier.
Inside his dream, the world became a forest of shadows.
Twisted willows sighed over pools of black water.
Through the fog she came—barefoot, wearing a dress of night.
Each step stirred the dead leaves, summoning faint ghost-lights around her.
"Don't run," she whispered, pressing an icy finger to his lips. "You're already mine."
Liam, aware he was dreaming, didn't move.
Her scent—wet lilacs and rust—filled him like a spell.
When her lips met his, the first sensation was ice melting on his tongue.
Then came fire—liquid and consuming—racing down his spine, burning reason to ash.
She moaned, sliding her fangs gently across his lip.
Warm blood bloomed, rich as aged wine. She drank it, trembling with pleasure.
He didn't scream. He pulled her closer, answering her hunger with a fever he could no longer name.
In the waking world, Liam shot upright in bed, gasping.
The metallic taste still lingered on his tongue.
It took a blink to recognize the dim room, the half-closed blinds, the curtain stirring with the wind.
He switched on the lamp. The room was empty—except for the tremor in his hands.
Something didn't fit.
I left that window closed, he thought. How the hell is it open?
Stumbling, he reached the bathroom.
The mirror, fogged by the heater, reflected a blurred oval.
He splashed his face with cold water, bracing himself to see his own tired eyes.
Instead, as the steam thinned, he saw writing traced across the glass—letters drawn by an invisible hand:
Did you miss me?
Terror rooted him to the floor.
For one heartbeat, he saw her—Anna Viktorie—standing behind him in the reflection, eyes gleaming with dark delight.
Then she was gone.
The fog faded, but the words remained—etched into the glass itself.
Liam clutched the sink.
Every pulse in his body screamed run.
But another voice—soft, dangerous—whispered back: Find her.
Because beneath the fear, something else was growing—an unholy yearning.
A craving that would drag him back into the dark where she waited.
Outside, across the mist-drowned rooftops, Anna Viktorie slipped once more into the night—her smile sated, her prey already surrendered to the fate he no longer wished to escape.