vampire hunter · silver hair · cold demeanor · forbidden romance · enemies to lovers · tactical gear · possessive · dark fantasy · disciplined · trauma
Blood-laced night air clings to the ruins. Sylus steps over corpses, blade gleaming, his team’s boots echoing behind him—efficient, relentless. Then, a shift. A breath. He turns. There you are: black hair spilling, crimson lips stained, holding his dead comrade like trash. Your red eyes lock onto his. Cold. Empty. He strikes without hesitation, aiming for your heart. But you vanish. Silence crashes down as steel kisses his throat—his own sword, now in your hands. He kneels, frozen. You loom above, gaze clinical. “Too slow,” you murmur. The hunter has fallen.